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THE  LIBRARY 

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THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

Marvin  MacLean 


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POEMS 


THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS, 


POEMS 


INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS, 


BY 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  ^BROWNING. 


ELEGANTLY  ILLUSTRATED. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED  BY  E.  H.  BUTLER  &  CO. 

1865. 


PKIXTED  BY  I.  ASHMEAD. 


GIFI 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


To  most  persons  who  accost  Mrs.  Browning's  Poems, 
for  the  first  time,  she  presents  a  strange  paradox.  A 
woman,  with  such  an  indiviclnality  as  seems  to  rise  above 
the  trammels  of  sex,  she  invades  all  the  realms  of 
thought,  contests  the  palm  of  highest  scholarship,  and 
sings  enthusiastic  political  songs  in  favor  of  regenerated 
Italy. 

But  ^Irs.  Browning  is  a  true  woman,  after  all.  Her 
affections  spring  forth  to  greet  the  blinded  Eomney  in 
Aurora  Leigh,  and  her  '^Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese," 
are  as  impassioned  as  any  in  the  English  language. 

She  has  been  accused  of  elliptical  and  confused  diction. 
This  is  not  just.  Her  works  require  an  attentive  reader, 
but  once  carefully  studied  they  display  a  remarkably 
clear   mind,   subtle   fancy,   noble  imagination,   and   the 

(vii) 

164 


VlU  ADVERTISEMENT. 

largest  culture.  In  spite  of  ignorant  critics,  she  has 
therefore  gained  a  growing  popularity,  and  is  at  present 
as  extensively  read  in  America  as  any  other  English 
poet. 

Our  careful  selection  has,  as  its  aim,  to  render  a  truthful 
portraiture  of  her  mind  and  heart,  and  thus  to  conduce 
to  a  more  thorough  knowledge  of  the  greatest  poet  pro- 
duced by  England  in  our  generation. 


CONTENTS, 


PAGE 

A  Lament  for  Adonis 13 

The  Cry  of  the  Children           . ]8 

The  Lady's  Yes 24 

Heaven's  Sunrise  to  Earth's  Blindness 26 

The  Virgin  Mary  to  the  Child  Jesus 27 

From  "Earth  and  her  Praisers" 34 

Crowned  and  AVedded 36 

Crowned  and  Buried 39 

False  Step           46 

Cowper's  Grave        48 

Hector  in  the  Garden 51 

Sleeping  and  Watching 55 

The  Seraph  and  Poet 57 

Comfort 58 

To  George  Sand 59 

Heaven  and  Earth 59 

A  Song  against  Singing       60 

Loved  Once 62 

A  Child's  Thought  of  God 64 

The  Sleep C)3 

The  Weakest  Thing 67 

A  Woman's  Shortcomings 68 

(xi) 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  Man's  Requirements 70 

Inclusions 72 

Love  for  Love 72 

A  Lock  of  Hair 73 

Call  me  by  my  Pet-Name 74 

The  Kiss 74 

The  Best  Thing  in  the  World 75 

The  Cry  op  the  Hitman 76 

My  Kate 80 

Amy's  Cruelty 82 

GrARIBALDI 84 

Only  a  Curl 87 

Mother  and  Poet 89 

Napoleon  III.  in  Italy       94 

Christmas  Gifts 110 

A  Curse  for  a  Nation 112 

Void  in  Law 117 

May's  Love 120 

The  Forced  Recruit 120 

King  Victor  Emanuel  entering  Florence,  April,  1860 122 


POEMS 


THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


A  LAMENT  FOR  ADONIS. 

FROM  BION. 


I  MOURN  for  Adonis — Adonis  is  dead, 

Fair  Adonis  is  dead  and  the  Loves  are  lamenting. 

Sleep,  Cypris,  no  more  on  tliy  purple-strewed  bed : 

Arise,  wretch  stoled  in  black;  beat  thy  breast  unrelenting, 

And  shriek  to  the  worlds,  "  Fair  Adonis  is  dead." 


I  mourn  for  Adonis — the  Loves  are  lamenting. 

He  lies  on  the  hills  in  his  beauty  and  death ; 
The  white  tusk  of  a  boar  has  transpierced  his  white  thigh. 

Cytherea  grows  mad  at  his  thin  gasping  breath. 
While  the  black  blood  drips  down  on  the  pale  ivory. 

And  his  eyeballs  lie  quenched  with  the  weight  of  bis  ])r()ws, 
2  (i:^)    - 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  Man's  Requirements 70 

Inclusions 72 

Love  for  Love 72 

A  Lock  of  Hair 73 

Call  me  by  my  Pet-Name 74 

The  Kiss 74 

The  Best  Thing  in  the  World 75 

The  Cry  op  the  Human 76 

My  Kate 80 

Amy's  Cruelty 82 

Garibaldi 84 

Only  a  Curl 87 

Mother  and  Poet 89 

Napoleon  IIL  in  Italy 94 

Christmas  Gifts 110 

A  Curse  for  a  Nation 112 

Void  in  Law 117 

May's  Love 120 

The  Forced  Recruit       120 

King  Victor  Emanuel  entering  Florence,  April,  1860 122 


POEMS 


THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


A  LAMENT  FOR  ADONIS. 

FROM  BION. 


I. 


I  MOURN  for  Adonis — xiclonis  is  dead, 

Fair  Adonis  is  dead  and  the  Loves  are  lamenting. 

Sleep,  Cypris,  no  more  on  thy  purple-strewed  bed : 

Arise,  wretch  stoled  in  black ;  beat  thy  breast  unrelenting, 

And  shriek  to  the  worlds,  "  Fair  Adonis  is  dead." 


I  mourn  for  Adonis — the  Loves  are  lamenting. 

He  lies  on  the  hills  in  his  beauty  and  death ; 
The  white  tusk  of  a  boar  has  transpierced  his  white  thigh. 

Cytherea  grows  mad  at  his  thin  gasping  breath. 
While  the  black  blood  drips  down  on  the  pale  ivory, 

And  his  eyeballs  lie  quenched  with  the  weight  of  his  brows, 
2  (i:^)    - 


14  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

The  rose  fades  from  his  lips,  and  upon  them  just  parted 
The  kiss  dies  the  goddess  consents  not  to  lose, 

Though  the  kiss  of  the  Dead  cannot  make  her  glad-hearted  : 
He  knows  not  who  kisses  him  dead  in  the  dews. 

III. 
I  mourn  for  Adonis — the  Loves  are  lamenting. 

Deep,  deep  in  the  thigh  is  Adonis's  wound, 
But  a  deeper,  is  Cypris's  bosom  presenting. 

The  youth  lieth  dead  while  his  dogs  howl  around, 
And  the  nymphs  weep  aloud  from  the  mists  of  the  hill, 

And  the  poor  Aphrodite,  with  tresses  unbound, 
All  dishevelled,  unsandalled,  shrieks  mournful  and  shrill 

Through  the  dusk  of  the  groves.     The  thorns,  tearing  her 
feet. 
Gather  up  the  red  flower  of  her  blood  which  is  holy, 

Each  footstep  she  takes ;  and  the  valleys  repeat 
The  sharp  cry  she  utters  and  draw  it  out  slowly. 

She  calls  on  her  spouse,  her  Assyrian,  on  him 
Her  own  youth,  while  the  dark  blood  spreads  over  his  body, 

The  chest  taking  hue  from  the  gash  in  the  limb, 
And  the  bosom  once  ivory,  turning  to  ruddy. 

IV. 

Ah,  ah,  Cytherea !  the  Loves  are  lamenting. 

She  lost  her  fair  spouse  and  so  lost  her  fair  smile  : 
When  he  lived  she  was  fair,  by  the  whole  world's  consenting, 

Whose  fairness  is  dead  with  him  :  woe  worth  the  while  ! 
All  the  mountains  above  and  the  oaklands  below 

Murmur,  ah,  ah  Adonis  I  the  streams  overflow 


A  LAMENT  FOR  ADONIS.  15 

Aphrodite's  deep  wail ;  river-fountains  in  pity 

Weep  soft  in  the  hills,  and  the  flowers  as  they  blow 

Redden  outward  with  sorrow,  while  all  hear  her  go 

With  the  song  of  her  sadness  through  mountain  and  city. 


Ah,  ah,  Cytherea !     Adonis  is  dead. 

Fair  Adonis  is  dead — Echo  answers,  Adonis ! 
Who  weeps  not  for  Cypris,  when  bowing  her  head 

She  stares  at  the  wound  where  it  gapes  and  astonies  ? 
— When,  ah,  ah  ! — she  saw  how  the  blood  ran  away 

x\nd  empurpled  the  thigh,  and,  with  wild  hands  flung  out, 
Said  with  sobs,  "  Stay,  Adonis  I  unhappy  one,  stay. 

Let  me  feel  thee  once  more,  let  me  ring  thee  about 
With  the  clasp  of  my  arms,  and  press  kiss  into  kiss ! 

Wait  a  little,  Adonis,  and  kiss  me  again. 
For  the  last  time,  beloved, — and  but  so  much  of  this 

That  the  kiss  may  learn  life  from  the  warmth  of  the  strain ! 
— Till  thy  breath  shall  exude  from  thy  soul  to  my  mouth. 

To  my  heart,  and,  the  love-charm  I  once  more  receiving, 
May  drink  thy  love  in  it  and  keep  of  a  truth 

That  one  kiss  in  the  place  of  Adonis  the  living. 
Thou  fliest  me,  mournful  one,  fliest  me  far. 

My  Adonis,  and  seekest  the  Acheron  portal, — 
To  Hell's  cruel  King  goest  down  with  a  scar, 

While  I  weep  and  live  on  like  a  wretched  immortal, 
And  follow  no  step  !     0  Persephone,  take  him. 

My  husband  ! — thou'rt  better  and  brighter  than  I, 


16  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

So  all  beauty  flows  down  to  thee  :  /  cannot  make  him 

Look  up  at  my  grief;  there's  despair  in  my  cr}^, 
Since  I  wail  for  Adonis  who  died  to  me — died  to  me — 

Then,  I  fear  thee  I — Art  thou  dead,  my  Adored  ? 
Passion  ends  like  a  dream  in  the  sleep  that's  denied  to  me, 

Cypris  is  widowed,  the  Loves  seek  their  lord 
All  the  house  through  in  vain.     Charm  of  cestus  has  ceased 

With  thy  clasp  !  0  too  bold  in  the  hunt  past  preventing, 
Ay,  mad,  thou  so  fair,  to  have  strife  with  a  beast  I" 

Thus  the  goddess  wailed  on — and  the  Loves  arc  lamenting 


Ah,  ah,  Cytherea !  Adonis  is  dead. 

She  wept  tear  after  tear  with  the  blood  which  was  shed. 
And  both  turned  into  flowers  for  the  earth's  garden-close, 

Her  tears,  to  the  wind-flower ;  his  blood,  to  the  rose. 

VII. 

I  mourn  for  Adonis — Adonis  is  dead. 

Weep  no  more  in  the  woods,  Cj^therea,  thy  lover  ! 
So,  well :  make  a  place  for  his  corse  in  thy  bed, 

With  the  purples  thou  sleepest  in,  under  and  over. 
He's  fair  though  a  corse — a  fair  corse,  like  a  sleeper. 

Lay  him  soft  in  the  silks  he  had  pleasure  to  fold 
When,  beside  thee  at  night,  holy  dreams  deep  and  deeper 

Enclosed  his  young  life  on  the  couch  made  of  gold. 
Love  him  still,  poor  Adonis ;  cast  on  him  together 

The  crowns  and  the  flowers :  since  he  died  from  the  place, 


A  LAMENT  FOR  ADONIS.  17 

Why,  let  all  die  with  him ;  let  the  blossoms  go  wither, 
Kain  myrtles  and  olive-buds  down  on  his  face. 

Rain  the  myrrh  down,  let  all  that  is  best  fall  a-pining, 
Since  the  myrrh  of  his  life  from  thy  keeping  is  swept. 

Pale  he  lay,  thine  Adonis,  in  purples  reclining; 

The  Loves  raised  their  voices  around  him  and  wept. 

They  have  shorn  their  bright  curls  off  to  cast  on  Adonis; 

One  treads  on  his  bow, — on  his  arrows,  another, — 

One  breaks  up  a  well-feathered  quiver,  and  one  is 
Bent  low  at  a  sandal,  untying  the  strings, 
And  one  carries  the  vases  of  gold  from  the  springs, 

While  one  washes  the  wound, — and  behind  them  a  brother 
Fans  down  on  the  body  sweet  air  with  his  wings. 

VIIl. 

Cytherea  herself  now  the  Loves  are  lamenting. 

Each  torch  at  the  door  Hymenaeus  blew  out ; 
And,  the  marriage-wreath  dropping  its  leaves  as  repenting, 

No  more  "  Hymen,  Hymen,''  is  chanted  about, 
But  the  ai  ai  instead — ••  ai  alas"  is  begun 

For  Adonis,  and  then  follows  "  ai  Hymenaeus  I" 
The  Graces  are  weeping  for  Cinyris'  son, 

Sobbing  low  each  to  each,  "  His  fair  eyes  cannot  see  us  !" 
Their  wail  strikes  more  shrill  than  the  sadder  Dionc's. 
The  Fates  mourn  aloud  for  iVdonis,  Adonis, 
Deep  chanting ;  he  hears  not  a  word  that  they  say : 

He  loould  hear,  but  Persephone  has  him  in  keeping. 
— Cease  moan,  Cytherea:  leave  pomps  for  to-day. 

And  weep  new  when  a  new  year  refits  thee  for  weeping. 
2* 


18  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN. 


Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  0  my  brothers, 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against  their  mothers, 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The  young  Iambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows. 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest, 
The  young  fawns  are  playing  with  the  shadows, 

The  young  flowers  are  blowing  toward  the  west — 
But  the  young,  young  children,  0  my  brothers. 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  ! 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the  others, 

In  the  country  of  the  free. 


Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  the  sorrow 
Why  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 

The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow 
Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago ; 

The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest. 
The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost. 

The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest. 
The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost : 

But  the  young,  young  children,  0  my  brothers, 
Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN.  19 


Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their  mothers, 
In  our  happy  Fatherkind  ? 


They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 
For  the  man's  hoary  anguish  draws  and  presses 

Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy ; 
"  Your  old  earth,"  they  say,  "  is  very  dreary, 

Our  young  feet,"  they  say,  ''  are  very  weak  ', 
Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary — 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek  : 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the  children. 

For  the  outside  earth  is  cold. 
And  we  j^oung  ones  stand  without,  in  our  bewildering 

And  the  graves  are  for  the  old." 

IV. 

"  True,"  say  the  children,  "  it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time : 
Little  Alice  died  last  year,  her  grave  is  shapen 

Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime. 
We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take  her  : 

Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close  clay ! 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will  wake  her, 

Crying,  "  Get  up,  Httle  Alice  !  it  is  day." 
If  you  listen  by  that  grave,  in  sun  and  shower, 

With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never  cries ; 


20  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should  not  know  her, 

For  the  smile  has  time  for  growing  in  her  eyes  : 
And  merry  go  her  moments,  lulled  and  stilled  in 

The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime. 
It  is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the  children, 

"  That  we  die  before  our  time." 


Alas,  alas,  the  children  !  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have  : 
They  are  binding  up  their  hearts  away  from  breaking, 

With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 
Gro  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from  the  city, 

Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes  do; 
Pluck  your  handfuls  of  the  meadow-cowslips  pretty, 

Laugh  aloud,  to  feel  your  fingers  let  them  through  ! 
But  they  answer,  "  Are  your  cowslips  of  the  meadows 

Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine  ? 
Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  the  coal-shadows, 
From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine  ! 


"  For  oh,"  say  the  children,  "we  are  weary. 
And  we  cannot  run  or  leap ; 

If  we  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 
To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 

Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping, 
We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go ; 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN.  21 

And,  underneath  our  heavy  e^^elids  drooping, 

The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  pale  as  snow. 
For,  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring 

Through  the  coal-dark,  underground  -, 
Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 

In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 


"  For  all  day,  the  wheels  are  droning,  turning; 

Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces, 
Till  our  hearts  turn,  our  heads  with  pulses  burning, 

And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places  : 
Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank  and  reeling, 

Turns  the  long  light  that  drops  adown  the  wall, 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the  ceiling, 

All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we  with  all. 
And  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  are  droning, 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
'  0  ye  wheels,^  (breaking  out  in  a  mad  moaning) 
'  Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  !'  " 


Ay,  be  silent !     Let  them  hear  each  other  breathing 

For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth  ! 
Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in  a  fresh  wreathino- 

Of  their  tender  human  youth  I 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 
Is  not  all  the  life  Grod  fashions  or  reveals : 


22  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Let  tliem  prove  their  living  souls  against  the  notion 

That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  0  wheels  ! 
Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

G-rinding  life  down  from  its  mark ; 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  calling  sunward, 

Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

IX. 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  0  my  brothers, 

To  look  up  to  Him  and  pray ; 
So  the  blessed  One  who  blesseth  all  the  others. 

Will  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer,  "  Who  is  God  that  he  should  hear  us. 
While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is  stirred  ? 
AVhen  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures  near  us 

Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not  a  word. 
And  we  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  their  resounding) 

Strangers  speaking  at  the  door  : 
Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round  him. 
Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 


"  Two  words,  indeed,  of  praying  we  remember. 
And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 

'  Our  Father,'  looking  upward  in  the  chamber. 
We  say  softly  for  a  charm. 

We  know  no  other  words  except  '  Our  Father,' 
And  we  think  that,  in  some  pause  of  angels'  song, 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN.  23 

God  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence  sweet  to  gather, 

And  hold  both  within  his  right  hand  which  is  strong. 
'  Our  Father  !'  If  He  heard  us,  He  would  surely 

(For  they  call  him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,  smiling  down  the  steep  world  very  purely, 
'  Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child/ 


"  But,  no  !"  say  the  children,  weeping  faster, 

"  He  is  speechless  as  a  stone  : 
And  they  tell  us,  of  his  image  is  the  master 

Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
Go  to  !"  say  the  children, — "  up  in  Heaven, 

Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are  all  we  find. 
Do  not  mock  us ;  grief  has  made  us  unbelieving : 
We  look  up  for  God,  but  tears  have  made  us  blind." 
Do  you  hear  the  children  weej^ing  and  disproving, 

0  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach  ? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  His  world's  loving, 

And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 


And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  you  ! 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run; 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the  glory 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun. 
They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  its  wisdom ; 
They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without  its  calm ; 


24  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Are  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Christdom, 

Are  martyrs,  by  the  pang  without  the  palm  : 
Are  worn  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 

The  harvest  of  its  memories  cannot  reap, — 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heavenly. 

Let  them  weep  !  let  them  weep  ! 


They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  look  is  dread  to  see. 
For  they  mind  you  of  their  angels  in  high  places, 

With  eyes  turned  on  Deity. 
"  How  long,"  they  say,  "  how  long,  0  cruel  nation. 

Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  a  child's  heart,- 
Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its  palpitation. 

And  tread  onward  to  your  throne  amid  the  mart  ?     . 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  O  gold-heaper, 
And  your  purple  shows  your  path  ! 
But  the  child's  sob  in  the  silence  curses  deeper 
Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath." 


THE  LADY'S  YES. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  you  last  night 
"  No,"  this  morning,  sir,  I  say  : 

(Colors  seen  by  caudle-light 

Will  not  look  the  same  by  day. 


THE  LADY  S  YES.  25 

"Wheu  the  viols  iDlayed  their  best, 

Lamps  above  and  laughs  below, 
Love  me  sounded  like  a  jest, 

Fit  for  yes  or  fit  for  no. 

Call  me  false  or  call  me  free, 

Vow,  whatever  light  may  shine, — ■ 
No  man  on  your  face  shall  see 

Any  grief  for  change  on  mine. 

Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both ; 

Time  to  dance  is  not  to  woo; 
Wooing  light  makes  fickle  troth, 

Scorn  of  me  recoils  on  you. 

Learn  to  win  a  lady's  faith 

Nobly,  as  the  thing  is  high. 
Bravely,  as  for  life  and  death, 

With  a  loyal  gravity. 

Lead  her  from  the  festive  boards. 

Point  her  to  the  starry  skies ; 
Guard  her,  by  your  truthful  words, 

Pure  from  courtship's  flatteries. 

By  your  truth  she  shall  be  true. 

Ever  true,  as  wives  of  yore  ] 
And  her  yes,  once  said  to  you. 

Shall  be  Yes  for  evermore. 


26  POEMS  or  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


HEAVEN'S  SUNRISE  TO  EARTH'S  BLINDNESS. 

It  is  the  hour  for  souls ; 
That  bodies,  leavened  by  the  will  and  love, 
Be  lightened  to  redemption.     The  w.orld's  old ; 
But  the  old  world  waits  the  hour  to  be  renewed : 
Toward  which,  new  hearts  in  individual  growth 
Must  quicken,  and  increase  to  multitude 
In  new  dynasties  of  the  race  of  men, — 
Developed  whence,  shall  grow  spontaneously 
New  churches,  new  oeconomies,  new  laws 
Admitting  freedom,  new  societies 
Excluding  falsehood.     He  shall  make  all  new. 

My  Bomney ! — Lifting  up  my  hand  in  his, 
As  wheeled  by  Seeing  spirits  toward  the  east. 
He  turned  instinctively, — where,  faint  and  fair, 
Along  the  tingling  desert  of  the  sky, 
Beyond  the  circle  of  the  conscious  hills. 
Were  laid  in  jasper-stone  as  clear  as  glass 
The  first  foundations  of  that  new,  near  Day 
Which  should  be  builded  out  of  heaven,  to  God. 
He  stood  a  moment  with  erected  brows, 
In  silence,  as  a  creature  might,  who  gazed  : 
Stood  calm,  and  fed  his  blind,  majestic  eyes 
LTpon  the  thought  of  perfect  noon.     iVnd  when 
I  saw  his  soul  saw, — "  Jasper  first,"  I  said. 


X^^Jr 


1/%'  ff 


^ 


'       -^A^Jy^^^  -y^^^  \/h/lJ^^^lZf,  ■ 


THE  VIRGIN  MARY  TO  THE  CHILD  JESUS.  27 

"  And  second,  sapphire  ;  third,  chalcedony  ; 
The  rest  in  order,  .   .  last,  an  amethyst." 


THE  VIRGIN  MARY  TO  THE  CHILD  JESUS. 

I. 

Sleep,  sleep,  mine  Holy  One  ! 
My  flesh,  my  Lord  ! — what  name  ?  I  do  not  know 
A  name  that  seemeth  not  too  high  or  low, 

Too  far  from  me  or  heaven  : 
My  Jesus,  that  is  best !  that  word  being  given 
By  the  majestic  angel  whose  command 
Was  softly  as  a  man's  beseeching  said. 
When  I  and  all  the  eai'th  appeared  to  stand 

In  the  great  overflow 
Of  light  celestial  from  his  wings  and  head. 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  saving  One  ! 

II. 
And  art  Thou  come  for  saving,  baby-browed 
And  speechless  Being — art  Thou  come  for  saving  ? 
The  palm  that  grows  beside  our  door  is  bowed 
By  treadings  of  the  low  wind  from  the  south, 
A  restless  shadow  throuo'h  the  chamber  waving : 
Upon  its  bough  a  bird  sings  in  the  sun. 
But  Thou,  with  that  close  slumber  on  Thy  mouth. 
Dost  seem  of  wind  and  sun  already  weary. 
Art  come  for  saving,  0  my  weary  One  ? 


2$  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

III. 

Perchance  this  sleep  that  shiitteth  out  the  dreary 
Earth-sounds  and  motions,  opens  on  Thy  soul 

High  dreams  on  fire  with  God ; 
High  songs  that  make  the  pathways  where  they  roll 


More  bright  than  stars  do  theirs ;  and  visions 


.^..^      v.x.v^      ^^.IXKJ      VIV/       lJXaV.iXO; 


new 


Of  Thine  eternal  Nature's  old  abode. 

Sufi'er  this  mother's  kiss, 

Best  thing  that  earthly  is, 
To  glide  the  music  and  the  glory  through. 
Nor  narrow  in  thy  dream  the  broad  upliftings 

Of  any  seraph  wing. 
Thus  noiseless,  thus.     Sleep,  sleep,  my  dreaming  One  ! 


The  slumber  of  his  lijDS  meseems  to  run 
Through  m?/  lips  to  mine  heart,  to  all  its  shiftings 
Of  sensual  life,  bringing  contrariousness 
In  a  great  calm.     I  feel  I  could  lie  down 
As  Moses  did,  and  die,* — and  then  live  most. 
I  am  'ware  of  you,  heavenly  Presences, 
That  stand  with  your  peculiar  light  unlost, 
Each  forehead  with  a  high  thought  for  a  crown. 
Unsunned  i'  the  sunshine  !  I  am  'Avare,     Ye  throw 
No  shade  against  the  wall !     How  motionless 
Ye  round  me  with  your  living  statuary, 


^  It  is  a  Jewish  tradition  that  Moses  died  of  the  kisses  of  God's  lips 


THE  VIRGIN  MARY  TO  THE  CHILD  JESUS.  29 

While  through  your  whiteness,  iu  and  outwardly, 

Continual  thoughts  of  God  appear  to  go. 

Like  light's  soul  in  itself.     I  bear,  I  bear 

To  look  upon  the  dropt  lids  of  your  eyes, 

Though  their  external  shining  testifies 

To  that  beatitude  within  which  were 

Enough  to  blast  an  eagle  at  his  sun : 

I  fall  not  on  my  sad  clay  face  before  ye, — 

I  look  on  His.     I  know 
My  spirit  which  dilateth  with  the  woe 

Of  His  mortality, 

May  well  contain  your  glory. 

Yea,  drop  your  lids  more  low. 
Ye  are  but  fellow-worshippers  with  me  ! 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  worshipped  One  ! 

V. 

We  sate  among  the  stalls  at  Bethlehem ; 

The  dumb  kine  from  their  fodder  turning  them. 

Softened  their  horned  faces 

To  almost  human  gazes 

Toward  the  newly  Born  : 
The  simple  shepherds  from  the  star-lit  brooks 

Brought  visionary  looks. 
As  yet  in  their  astonied  hearing  rung 

The  strange  sweet  angel-tongue  : 
The  magi  of  the  East,  in  sandals  worn, 

Knelt  reverent,  sweeping  round. 
With  long  pale  beards,  their  gifts  upon  the  ground, 
8* 


30  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

The  incense,  myrrh  and  gold 
These  baby-hands  were  impotent  to  hold  : 
So  let  all  earthlies  and  celestials  wait 

Upon  Thy  royal  state. 

SleejD,  sleep,  my  kingly  One  ! 

VI. 

I  am  not  proud — meek  angels,  ye  invest 
New  meeknesses  to  hear  such  utterance  rest 
On  mortal  lips, — "  I  am  not  proud" — not  proud  ! 
Albeit  in  my  flesh  God  sent  His  Son, 
Albeit  over  Him  my  head  is  bowed 
As  others  bow  before  Him,  still  mine  heart 
Bows  lower  than  their  knees.     0  centuries 
That  roll  in  vision  your  futurities 

My  future  grave  athwart, — 
Whose  murmurs  seem  to  reach  me  while  I  keep 

Watch  o'er  this  sleep, — 
Say  of  me  as  the  Heavenly  said — "  Thou  art 
The  blessedest  of  women  !" — blessedest, 
Not  holiest,  not  noblest,  no  high  name 
Whose  height  misplaced  may  pierce  me  like  a  shame 
When  I  sit  meek  in  heaven  ! 

For  me,  for  me, 
God  knows  that  I  am  feeble  like  the  rest ! 
I  often  wandered  forth,  more  child  than  maiden. 
Among  the  midnight  hills  of  Galilee, 

Whose  summits  looked  heaven-laden, 
Listening  to  silence  as  it  seemed  to  be 


THE  VIRGIN  MARY  TO  THE  CHILD  JESUS.  31 

Grod's  voice,  so  soft  yet  strong,  so  fain  to  press 

Upon  my  heart  as  heaven  did  on  the  height, 

And  waken  up  its  shadows  by  a  light, 

And  show  its  vileness  by  a  hoHness. 

Then  I  knelt  down  most  silent  like  the  night, 

Too  self-renounced  for  fears, 
Raising  my  small  face  to  the  boundless  blue 
Whose  stars  did  mix  and  tremble  in  my  tears  : 
God  heard  them  falling  after,  with  his  dew. 


So,  seeing  my  corruption,  can  I  see 

This  Incorruptible  now  born  of  me, 

This  fair  new  Innocence  no  sun  did  chance 

To  shine  on,  (for  even  Adam  was  no  child) 

Created  from  my  nature  all  defiled. 

This  mystery,  from  out  mine  ignorance, — 

Nor  feel  the  blindness,  stain,  corruption,  more 

Thau  others  do,  or  /  did  heretofore  ? 

Can  hands  wherein  such  burden  pure  has  been. 

Not  open  with  the  cry,  "unclean,  unclean," 

More  oft  than  any  else  beneath  the  skies  ? 

Ah  King,  ah  Christ,  ah  son  ! 
The  kine,  the  shepherds,  the  abased  wise 

Must  all  less  lowly  wait 

Than  I,  upon  Thy  state. 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  kingly  One  ! 


32  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Art  Thou  a  King,  then  ?     Come,  His  universe, 
Come,  croAvn  me  Him  a  King ! 

Pluck  rays  from  all  such  stars  as  never  fling 
Their  light  where  fell  a  curse, 

And  make  a  crowning  for  this  kingly  brow  ! — 

What  is  my  word  ?     Each  empyreal  star 
Sits  in  a  sphere  afar 
In  shining  ambuscade  : 
The  child-brow,  crowned  by  none, 
Keeps  its  unchildlike  shade. 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  crownless  One ! 


Unchildlike  shade !  No  other  babe  doth  wear 

An  aspect  very  sorrowful,  as  Thou. 

No  small  babe-smiles  my  watching  heart  has  seen 

To  float  like  speech  the  speechless  lips  between, 

No  dovelike  cooing  in  the  golden  air. 

No  quick  short  joys  of  leaping  babyhood  : 

Alas,  our  earthly  good 
In  heaven  thought  evil,  seems  too  good  for  Thee  : 

Yet,  sleep,  my  weary  One ! 


And  then  the  drear  sharp  tongue  of  prophecy. 
With  the  dread  sense  of  things  which  shall  be  done. 
Doth  smite  me  inly,  like  a  sword  :  a  sword  ? 


THE  VIRGIN  MARY  TO  THE  CHILD  JESUS.  [VS 

That  "  smites  the  Slieplierd"     Then,  I  think  aloud 
The  words  "  despised/' — "  rejected," — every  word 
Recoiling  into  darkness  as  I  view 

The  Darling  on  my  knee. 
Bright  angels, — move  not — lest  ye  stir  the  cloud 
Betwixt  my  soul  and  His  futurity  ! 
I  must  not  die,  with  mother's  work  to  do, 

And  could  not  hve — and  see. 


It  is  enough  to  bear 

This  image  still  and  fair, 

This  holier  in  sleep 

Than  a  saint  at  prayer, 

This  aspect  of  a  child 

Who  never  sinned  or  smiled; 

This  Presence  in  an  infant's  flice  3 

This  sadness  most  like  love, 

This  love  than  love  more  deep, 

This  weakness  like  omnipotence 

It  is  so  strong  to  move. 

Awful  is  this  watching  place, 

Awful  what  I  see  from  hence — 

A  king,  without  regalia, 

A  God,  without  the  thunder, 

A  child,  without  the  heart  for  play; 

Ay,  a  Creator,  rent  asunder 

From  His  first  glory  and  cast  away 


34  rOEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

On  His  own  world,  for  me  alone 
To  hold  in  hands  created,  crying — Son  ! 

XII. 

That  tear  fell  not  on  Thee, 
Beloved,  yet  thou  stirrest  in  thy  slumber  ! 
Thou,  stirring  not  for  glad  sounds  out  of  number 
Which  through  the  vibratory  palm-trees  run 

From  summer-wind  and  bird, 

So  quickly  hast  thou  heard 

A  tear  fjill  silently  ? 

Wak'st  thou,  0  loving  One  ?— 


FROM  "EARTH  AND  HER  PRAISERS.' 

Praised  be  the  mosses  soft 

In  thy  forest  pathways  oft, 

And  the  thorns,  which  make  us  think 

Of  the  thornless  river-brink 

Where  the  ransomed  tread  : 
Praised  be  thy  sunny  gleams, 
And  the  storm,  that  worketh  dreams 

Of  calm  unfinished  : 
Praised  be  thine  active  days, 
And  thy  night-time's  solemn  need. 
When  in  God's  dear  book  we  read 

No  night  shall  he  therein  : 


FROM  '*  EARTH  AND  HER  PRAISERS."  35 

Praised  be  thy  dwellings  warm 

By  household  faggot's  cheerful  blaze, 

Where,  to  hear  of  pardoned  sin, 

Pauseth  oft  the  merry  din, 

Save  the  babe's  upon  the  arm 

Who  croweth  to  the  crackling  wood : 

Yea,  and,  better  understood, 

Praised  be  thy  dwellings  cold. 

Hid  beneath  the  churchyard  mould, 

Where  the  bodies  of  the  saints 

Separate  from  earthly  taints 

Lie  asleep,  in  blessing  bound. 

Waiting  for  the  trumpet's  sound 

To  free  them  into  blessing ; — none 

AYeeping  more  beneath  the  sun. 

Though  dangerous  words  of  human  love 

Be  graven  very  near,  above. 

Earth,  we  Christians  praise  thee  thus. 
Even  for  the  change  that  comes 
With  a  grief  from  thee  to  us  : 
For  thy  cradles  and  thy  tombs, 
For  the  pleasant  corn  and  wine 
And  summer-heat ;  and  also  for 
The  frost  upon  the  sycamore 
And  hail  upon  the  vine  ! 


36  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

CROWNED  AND  WEDDED. 

When  last  before  lier  people's  face  lier  own  fair  face  she  beut, 
Within  the  meek  projection  of  that  shade  she  was  content 
To  erase  the  child-smile  from  her  lips,  which  seemed  as  if  it  might 
Be  still  kept  holy  from  the  world  to  childhood  still  in  sight — 
To  erase  it  with  a  solemn  vow,  a  princely  vow — to  rule, 
A  priestly  vow — to  rule  by  grace  of  God  the  pitiful, 
A  very  godlike  vow — to  rule  in  right  and  righteousness 
And  with  the  law  and  for  the  land — so  God  the  vower  bless ! 


The  minster  was  alight  that  day,  but  not  with  fire,  I  ween, 
And  long-drawn  glitterings  swept  adown  that  mighty  aisled  scene; 
The  priests  stood  stoled  in  their  pomp,  the  sworded  chiefs  in  theirs, 
And  so,  the  collared  knights,  and  so,  the  civil  ministers, 
And  so,  the  waiting  lords  and  dames,  and  little  pages  best 
At  holding  trains,  and  legates  so,  from  countries  east  and  west; 
So,  alien  princes^  native  peers,  and  high-born  ladies  bright. 
Along  whose  brows  the  Queen's,  now  crowned,  flashed  coronets 

to  light; 
And  so,  the  people  at  the  gates  with  priestly  hands  on  high 
Which  bring  the  first  anointing  to  all  legal  majesty; 
And  so  the  Dead,  who  lie  in  rows  beneath  the  minster  floor. 
There  verily  an  awful  state  maintaining  evermore ; 
The  statesman  whose  clean  palm  will  kiss  no  bribe  whate'er  it  be, 
The  courtier  who  for  no  fair  queen  will  rise  up  to  his  knee, 


CEOWNED  AND  WEDDED.  37 

The  court-dame  who  for  no  court-tire  will  leave  her  shroud  behind, 
The  laureate  who  no  courtlier  rhyme  than  "  dust  to  dust"  can  find, 
The  kings  and  queens  who  having  made  that  vow  and  worn  that 

crown, 
Descended  unto  lower  thrones  and  darker,  deep  adown  : 
Dieu  et  mon  droit — what  is't  to  them  ?   what  meaning  can  it 

have  ? — 
The  King  of  kings,  the  right  of  death — God's  judgment  and  the 

grave. 
And  when  betwixt  the  quick  and  dead  the  young  fair  queen  had 

vowed, 
The  living  shouted,  "  May  she  live  !  Victoria,  live  !"  aload  : 
And  as  the  loyal  shouts  went  up,  true  spirits  prayed  between, 
"  The    blessings    happy  monarchs   have   be  thine,  0  crowned 

queen  !" 

III. 

But  now  before  her  people's  face  she  bendeth  hers  anew. 
And  calls  them,  while  she  vows,  to  be  her  witness  thereunto. 
She  vowed  to  rule,  and  in  that  oath  her  childhood  put  away : 
She  doth  maintain  her  womanhood,  in  vowing  love  to-day. 
0  lovely  lady  !  let  her  vow  !  such  lips  become  such  vows, 
And  fairer  goeth  bridal  wreath  than  crown  with  vernal  brows. 
0  lovely  lady  !  let  her  vow  !  yea,  let  her  vow  to  love  ! 
And  though  she  be  no  less  a  queen,  with  purples  hung  above, 
The  pageant  of  a  court  behind,  the  royal  kin  around. 
And  woven  gold  to  catch  her  looks  turned  maidenly  to  ground, 
Yet  may  the  bride-veil  hide  from  her  a  little  of  that  state, 
While  loving  hopes  for  retinues  about  her  sweetness  wait. 
4 


38         POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

She  vows  to  love  who  vowed  to  rule — (the  chosen  at  her  side) 
Let  none  say,  God  preserve  the  queen  !    but  rather,  Bless  the 

bride  ! 
None  blow  the  trump,  none  bend  the  knee,  none  violate  the  dream 
Wherein  no  monarch  but  a  wife  she  to  herself  may  seem. 
Or  if  ye  say.  Preserve  the  queen  !  oh,  breathe  it  inward  low — 
She  is  a  woman,  and  beloved!  and  'tis  enough  but  so. 
Count  it  enough,  thou  noble  prince  who  tak'st  her  by  the  hand 
And  claimest  for  thy  lady-love  our  lady  of  the  land  ! 
And  since,  Prince  Albert,  men  have  called  thy  spirit  high  and 

rare, 
And  true  to  truth  and  brave  for  truth  as  some  at  Augsburg  were, 
We  charge  thee  by  thy  lofty  thoughts  and  by  thy  poet-mind 
Which  not  by  glory  and  degree  takes  measure  of  mankind. 
Esteem  that  wedded  hand  less  dear  for  sceptre  than  for  ring, 
And  hold  her  uncrowned  womanhood  to  be  the  royal  thing. 


And  now,  upon  our  queen's  last  vow  what  blessings  shall  we  pray  '/ 
None  straitened  to  a  shallow  crown  will  suit  our  lips  to-day  : 
Behold,  they  must  be  free  as  love,  they  must  be  broad  as  free, 
Even  to  the  borders  of  heaven's  light  and  earth's  humanity. 
Long  live  she!  —  send  up  loyal  shouts,  and  true  hearts  pray 

between, — 
"  The  blessings   happy  peasants  have,  be  thine,  0  crowned 

queen  !" 


CROWNED  AND  BURIED.  39 


CROWNED  AND  BURIED. 

I. 
Napoleon  ! — years  ago,  and  that  great  word 
Compact  of  liumaD  breath  in  hate  and  dread 
And  exultation,  skied  us  overhead — 
An  atmosphere  whose  lightning  was  the  sword 
Scathing  the  cedars  of  the  world, — drawn  down 
In  burnings,  by  the  metal  of  a  crown. 

II. 

Napoleon  ! — nations,  while  they  cursed  that  name, 
Shook  at  their  own  curse ;  and  while  others  bore 
Its  sound,  as  of  a  trumpet,  on  before, 
Brass-fronted  legions  justified  its  fame; 
And  dying  men  on  trampled  battle-sods 
Near  their  last  silence  uttered  it  for  God's, 


Napoleon  ! — sages,  with  high  foreheads  drooped, 
Did  use  it  for  a  problem ;  children  small 
Leapt  up  to  greet  it,  as  at  manhood's  call ; 
Priests  blessed  it  from  their  altars  overstooped 
By  meek-eyed  Christs ;  and  widows  with  a  moan 
Spake  it,  when  questioned  why  they  sate  alone. 

IV. 

That  name  consumed  the  silence  of  the  snows 
In  Alpine  keeping,  holy  and  cloud-hid ; 


40  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

The  mimic  eagles  dared  what  Nature's  did, 
And  over-rushed  her  mountainous  repose 
In  search  of  eyries  :  and  the  Egyptian  river 
Mingled  the  same  word  with  its  grand  "  For  ever." 


That  name  was  shouted  near  the  pyramidal 
Nilotic  tombs,  whose  mummied  habitants, 
Packed  to  humanity's  significance, 
Motioned  it  back  with  stillness, — shouts  as  idle 
As  hireling  artists'  work  of  myrrh  and  spice 
Which  swathed  last  glories  round  the  Ptolemies. 

VI. 

The  world's  face  changed  to  hear  it;  kingly  men 
Came  down  in  chidden  babes'  bewilderment 
From  autocratic  places,  each  content 
With  sprinkled  ashes  for  anointing :  then 
The  people  laughed  or  wondered  for  the  nonce, 
To  see  one  throne  a  composite  of  thrones. 

VII. 

Napoleon  ! — even  the  torrid  vastitude 

Of  India  felt  in  throbbings  of  the  air 

That  name  which  scattered  by  disastrous  blare 

All  Europe's  bound-lines, — drawn  afresh  in  blood. 

Napoleon  ! — from  the  Russias  west  to  Spain  : 

And  Austria  trembled  till  3'e  heard  her  chain. 


CROWNED  AND  BURIED.  41 


And  Germany  was  'ware;  and  Italy 
Oblivious  of  old  fames — lier  laurel-locked, 
High-ghosted  Caesars  passing  uninvoked — 
Did  crumble  her  own  ruins  with  her  knee, 
To  serve  a  newer  :  ay  !  but  Frenchmen  cast 
A  future  from  them  nobler  than  her  past : 


For  verily  though  France  augustly  rose 
"With  that  raised  name,  and  did  assume  by  such 
The  purple  of  the  world,  none  gave  so  much 
As  she  in  purchase — to  speak  plain,  in  loss — 
Whose  hands,  toward  freedom  stretched,  dropped 

paralyzed 
To  wield  a  sword  or  fit  an  undersized 

X. 

King's  crown  to  a  great  man's  head.  And  though  along 
Her  Paris'  streets,  did  float  on  frequent  streams 
Of  triumph,  pictured  or  enmarbled  dreams 
Dreamt  right  by  genius  in  a  world  gone  wrong, — 
No  dream  of  all  so  won  was  fair  to  see 
As  the  lost  vision  of  her  liberty. 

XI. 

Napoleon  I — 'twas  a  high  name  lifted  high  : 
It  met  at  last  God's  thunder  sent  to  clear 
Our  compassing  and  covering  atmosphere 
4* 


POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

And  Open  a  clear  sight  beyond  the  sky 

Of  supreme  empire ;  this  of  earth's  was  done — 

And  kings  crept  out  again  to  feel  the  sun. 

XII. 

The  kings  crept  out — the  peoples  sate  at  home, 

And  finding  the  long-invocated  peace 

(A  pall  embroidered  with  worn  images 

Of  rights  divine)  too  scant  to  cover  doom 

Such  as  they  sufi'ered,  cursed  the  corn  that  grew 

Rankly,  to  bitter  bread,  on  Waterloo. 

XIII. 

A  deep  gloom  centered  in  the  deep  repose ; 
The  nations  stood  up  mute  to  count  their  dead : 
And  he  who  owned  the  Name  which  vibrated 
Through  silence, — trusting  to  his  noblest  foes 
When  earth  was  all  too  gray  for  chivalry, 
Died  of  their  mercies  'mid  the  desert  sea. 

XIV. 

0  wild  St.  Helen !  very  still  she  kept  him. 
With  a  green  willow  for  all  pyramid, 
Which  stirred  a  little  if  the  low  wind  did, 
A  little  more,  if  pilgrims  overwept  him, 
Disparting  the  lithe  boughs  to  see  the  clay 
Which  seemed  to  cover  his  for  judgment-day. 

XV. 

Nay,  not  so  long !  France  kept  her  old  afiection 
As  deeply  as  the  sepulchre  the  corse ; 


CROWNED  AND  BURIED.  43 

Until,  dilated  by  sucli  love's  remorse 

To  a  new  angel  of  the  resurrection, 

She  cried,  "  Behold,  thou  England  !  I  would  have 

The  dead  whereof  thou  wottest,  from  that  grave.'' 

XVI. 

And  England  answered  in  the  courtesy 
Which,  ancient  foes  turned  lovers,  may  befit, — 
"  Take  back  thy  dead  !  and  when  thou  buriest  it. 
Throw  in  all  former  strifes  'twixt  thee  and  me." 
Amen,  mine  England  !  'tis  a  courteous  claim  : 
But  ask  a  little  room  too — for  thy  shame  ! 

XVII. 

Because  it  was  not  well,  it  was  not  well, 
Nor  tuneful  with  thy  lofty-chanted  part 
Among  the  Oceanides, — that  Heart 
To  bind  and  bare  and  vex  with  vulture  fell. 
I  would,  my  noble  England,  men  might  seek 
All  crimson  stains  upon  thy  breast — not  cheek  ! 

XVIII. 

I  would  that  hostile  fleets  had  scarred  Toi-bay, 

Instead  of  the  lone  ship  which  waited  moored 

Until  thy  princely  purpose  was  assured, 

Then  left  a  shadow,  not  to  pass  away — 

Not  for  to-night's  moon,  nor  to-morrow's  sun  : 

Green  watching  hills,  ye  witnessed  what  was  done  !* 

*  Written  at  Torquay. 


44  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

XIX. 

But  since  it  was  done, — in  sepulchral  dust 
We  fain  would  pay  back  someiiiing  of  our  debt 
To  France,  if  not  to  honor,  and  forget 
How  through  much  fear  we  falsified  the  trust 
Of  a  fallen  foe  and  exile.     We  return 
Orestes  to  Electra — in  his  urn. 


A  little  urn — a  little  dust  inside, 

Which  once  outbalanced  the  large  earth,  albeit 

To-day  a  four-years  child  might  carry  it 

Sleek-browed  and  smiling,  "  Let  the  burden  'bide  !" 

Orestes  to  Electra  ! — 0  fair  town 

Of  Paris,  how  the  wild  tears  will  run  down 

XXI. 

And  run  back  in  the  chariot-marks  of  time, 

When  all  the  people  shall  come  forth  to  meet 

The  passive  victor,  death-still  in  the  street 

He  rode  through  'mid  the  shouting  and  bell-chime 

And  martial  music,  under  eagles  which 

Dyed  their  rapacious  beaks  at  Austerlitz  I 


XXII. 

Napoleon  ! — he  hath  come  again,  borne  home 
Upon  the  popular  ebbing  heart, — a  sea 
Which  gathers  its  own  wrecks  perpetually, 
Majestically  moaning.     Give  him  room  ! 


CROWNED  AND  BURIED.  45 

Room  for  the  dead  in  Paris  !  welcome  solemn 

And  grave-deep,  'neatli  the  cannon-moulded  column  !* 


There,  weapon  spent  and  warrior  spent  may  rest 

From  roar  of  fields, — provided  Jupiter 

Dare  ti'ust  Saturnus  to  lie  down  so  near 

His  bolts  ! — and  this  he  may  :  for,  dispossessed 

Of  any  godship  lies  the  godlike  arm — 

The  goat,  Jove  sucked,  as  likely  to  do  harm. 


And  yet  .  .  .  Napoleon  ! — the  recovered  name 
Shakes  the  old  casements  of  the  world ;  and  we 
Look  out  upon  the  passing  pageantry, 
Attesting  that  the  Dead  makes  good  his  claim 
To  a  French  grave, — another  kingdom  won, 
The  last,  of  few  spans — by  Napoleon. 


Blood  fell  like  dew  beneath  his  sunrise — sooth  ! 
But  glittered  dew-like  in  the  covenanted 
Meridian  light.     He  was  a  despot — granted  I 
But  the  aoToq  of  his  autocratic  mouth 
Said  yea  i'  the  people's  French ;  he  magnified 
The  image  of  the  freedom  he  denied  : 

*  It  was  the  first  intention  to  bury  him  under  the  column. 


46  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


And  if  they  asked  for  rights,  he  made  reply 

"  Ye  have  my  glory  !" — and  so,  drawing  round  them 

His  ample  purple,  glorified  and  bound  them 

In  an  embrace  that  seemed  identity. 

He  ruled  them  like  a  tyrant — true  !  but  none 

Were  ruled  like  slaves :  each  felt  Napoleon. 

XXVII, 

I  do  not  praise  this  man  :  the  man  was  flawed 

For  Adam — much  more,  Christ ! — his  knee  unbent, 

His  hand  unclean,  his  aspiration  pent 

Within  a  sword-sweep — pshaw  ! — but  since  he  had 

The  genius  to  be  loved,  why  let  him  have 

The  justice  to  be  honored  in  his  grave. 

XXVIII. 

I  think  this  nation's  tears  thus  poured  together, 

Better  than  shouts.     I  think  this  funeral 

Grander  than  crownings,  though  a  Pope  bless  all. 

I  think  this  grave  stronger  than  thrones.     But  whether 

The  crowned  Napoleon  or  the  buried  clay 

Be  worthier,  I  discern  not :  angels  may. 


FALSE  STEP. 

Sweet,  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart. 
Pass  !  there's  a  world  full  of  men  ; 


FALSE  STEP.  47 

And  women  as  fair  as  thou  art 

Must  do  such  things  now  and  then. 

Thou  only  hast  stepped  unaware, — 

Malice,  not  one  can  impute ', 
And  why  should  a  heart  have  been  there 

In  the  way  of  a  fair  woman's  foot  ? 

It  was  not  a  stone  that  could  trip, 

Nor  was  it  a  thorn  that  could  rend : 
Put  up  thy  proud  uuderlip  ! 

'Twas  merely  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

And  yet  peradventure  one  day 

Thou,  sitting  alone  at  the  glass. 
Remarking  the  bloom  gone  away, 

Where  the  smile  in  its  dimplement  was, 

And  seeking  around  thee  in  vain 

From  hundreds  who  flattered  before, 

Such  a  word  as,  "  Oh,  not  in  the  main 
Do  I  hold  thee  less  precious,  but  more  V 

Thou'lt  sigh,  very  like,  on  thy  part, 

"  Of  all  I  have  known  or  can  know, 
I  wish  I  had  only  that  Heart 

I  trod  upon  ages  ago  !" 


48         POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


COWPER'S  GRAVE. 

It  is  a  place  wliere  poets  crowned  may  feel  the  heart's  decaying; 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints  may  weep  amid  their  praying : 
Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness  as  low  as  silence  languish  : 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm  to  whom  she  gave   her 
anguish. 

0  poets,  from  a  maniac's  tongue  was  poured  the  deathless  singing ! 
O  Christians,  at  your  cross  of  hope  a  hopeless  hand  was  clinging ! 
0  men,  this  man  in  brotherhood  your  weary  paths  beguiling. 
Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace,  and  died  while  ye  were 
smiling ! 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read  through  dimming  tears  his 

story, 
How  discord  on  the  music  fell  and  darkness  on  the  glory, 
And  how  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds  and  wandering  lights 

departed, 
He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because  so  broken-hearted, 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the  poet's  high  vocation, 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down  in  meeker  adoration ; 
Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by  wise  or  good  forsaken, 
Named  softly  as  tlie  household  name  of  one  whom  God  hath  taken. 

With  quiet  sadness  and  no  gloom  I  learn  to  think  upon  him. 
With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness  to  God  whose  heaven  hath 
won  him, 


cowper's  grave.  49 

AYho  suffered  once  the  madness-cloud  to  His  own  love  to  blind 

liim, 
But  gently  led  the  blind  along  where  breath  and  bird  could  find 

him ; 

And  wrought  within  his  shattered  brain  such  quick  poetic  senses 
As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars,  harmonious  influences  : 
The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass  kept  his  within  its  number. 
And  silent  shadows  from  the  trees  refreshed  him  like  a  slumber. 

Wild  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods  to  share  his  home- 
caresses, 

Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes  with  sylvan  tendernesses  : 

The  very  world,  by  Grod's  constraint,  from  falsehood's  ways 
removing. 

Its  women  and  its  men  became,  beside  him,  true  and  loving. 

And   though,  in  blindness,  he  remained    unconscious  of  that 

guidino- 
And  things  provided  came  without  the  sweet  sense  of  providing, 
He  testified  this  solemn  truth,  while  phrenzy  desolated, 
— Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfies  whom  only  Grod  created. 

Like  a  sick  child  that  kuoweth  not  his  mother  while  she  blesses 
And  drops  upon  his  burning  brow  the  coolness  of  her  kis.ses, — 
That  turns  his  fevered  eyes  around — "  My  mother!  where's  my 

mother  ?"  — 
As    if  such    tender   words    and    deeds   could    come    I'rom    an\' 

other  ! — 


50  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

The  fever  gone,  witli  leaps  of  heart  he  sees  her  bending  o'er  him, 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love,  the  unweary  love  she  bore 

him  ! — 
Thus  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream  his  life's  long  fever  gave 

him, 
Beneath  those    deep    pathetic  Eyes  which  closed    in  death  to 

save  him. 

Thus  ?  oh,  not  thus  !  no  type  of  earth  can  image  that  awaking, 
Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chant  of  seraphs,  round  him 

breaking. 
Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb  of  soul  from  body  parted, 
But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew, — "  My  Saviour !  not  de- 
serted !" 

Deserted !    Who  hath  dreamt  that  when  the  cross  in  darkness 

rested, 
Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face  no  love  was  manifested  ? 
What  frantic  hands  outstretched  have  e'er  the  atoning  drops 

averted  ? 
What  tears  have  washed  them  from  the  soul,  that  one  should  be 

deserted  ? 

Deserted !  Grod  could  separate  from  His  own  essence  rather ; 
And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  between  the  righteous  Son  and 

Father : 
Yea,  once^  Immanuel's  orphaned  cry  His  universe  hath  shaken — 
It  went  up  single,  echoless,  "  M}^  Grod,  I  am  forsaken  !" 


HECTOR  IN  THE  GARDEN.  51 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy's  lips  amid  His  lost  creation, 

That,  of  the  lost,  no  son  should  use  those  words  of  desolation  ! 

That  earth's  worst  phrenzies,   marring  hope,  should   mar  not 

hope's  fruition, 
And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see  his  rapture  in  a  vision. 


HECTOR  IN  THE  GARDEN. 

Nine  years  old  !     The  first  of  any 
Seem  the  happiest  years  that  come  : 
Yet  when  /was  nine,  I  said 
No  such  W' ord  !  I  thought  instead 

That  the  Greeks  had  used  as  many 
In  besieging  Ilium. 

Nine  green  years  had  scarcely  brought  me 
To  my  childhood's  haunted  spring  j 
I  had  life,  like  flowers  and  bees 
In  betwixt  the  country  trees, 

And  the  sun  the  pleasure  taught  me 
Which  he  teacheth  everything. 

If  the  rain  fell,  there  was  sorrow, 
Little  head  leant  on  the  pane, 
Little  finder  drawino-  down  "it 

o  o 

The  Ion*  trailing  drops  upon  it, 
And  the  "  Rain,  rain,  come  to-morrow," 
Said  for  charm  against  the  rain. 


52  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Sucli  a  charm  was  riglit  Canidian 
Thougli  you  meet  it  with  a  jeer  ! 
If  I  said  it  long  enough, 
Then  the  rain  hummed  dimly  off 

And  the  thrush  with  his  pure  Lydian 
Was  left  only  to  the  ear ; 

And  the  sun  and  I  together 

Went  a-rushiug  out  of  doors  ; 

We  our  tender  spirits  drew 

Over  hill  and  dale  in  view, 
Glimmering  hither,  glimmering  thither, 

In  the  footsteps  of  the  showers. 

Underneath  the  chestnuts  dripping. 
Through  the  grasses  wet  and  fair, 
Straight  I  sought  my  garden-ground 
With  the  laurel  on  the  mound, 

And  the  pear-tree  oversweeping 
A  side-shadow  of  green  air. 

In  the  garden  lay  supinely 

A  huge  giant  wrought  of  spade  ! 
Arms  and  legs  were  stretched  at  length 
In  a  passive  giant  strength, — 

The  fine  meadow-turf,  cut  finely. 
Round  them  laid  and  interlaid. 

Call  him  Hector,  son  of  Priam ! 
Such  his  title  and  decree. 


HECTOR  IN  THE  GARDEN.  53 

With  my  rake  I  smoothed  his  brow, 
Both  his  cheeks  I  weeded  through. 
But  a  rhymer  such  as  I  am, 
Scarce  can  sing  his  dignity. 

Eyes  of  gentianeUas  azure, 

Staring,  winking  at  the  skies ; 

Nose  of  gillyflowers  and  box ; 

Scented  grasses  put  for  locks, 
Which  a  little  breeze  at  pleasure 

Set  a-waviug  round  his  eyes : 

Brazen  helm  of  daffodillies, 

With  a  glitter  toward  the  light ; 

Purple  violets  for  the  mouth, 

Breathing  perfumes  west  and  south  ; 
And  a  sword  of  flashing  lilies, 

Holden  ready  for  the  fight : 

And  a  breastplate  made  of  daisies, 

Closely  fitting,  leaf  on  leaf; 

Periwinkles  interlaced 

Drawn  for  belt  about  the  waist ; 
While  the  brown  bees,  humming  praises. 

Shot  their  arrows  round  the  chief 

And  who  knows,  (I  sometimes  wondered,) 

If  the  disembodied  soul 

Of  old  Hector,  once  of  Troy, 

Might  not  take  a  dreary  joy 
5* 


54  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Here  to  euter — if  it  thundered, 
Rolling  up  the  thunder-roll  ? 

Rolling  this  way  from  Troy-ruin, 

In  this  body  rude  and  rife 

Just  to  enter,  and  take  rest 

'Neath  the  daisies  of  the  breast — 
They,  with  tender  roots,  renewing 

His  heroic  heart  to  life  ? 

Who  could  know  ?     I  sometimes  started 

At  a  motion  or  a  sound  ! 

Did  his  mouth  speak — naming  Troy 

With  an  ozotototoc  ? 
Did  the  pulse  of  the  Strong- hearted 

Make  the  daisies  tremble  round  ? 

It  was  hard  to  answer,  often  : 
But  the  birds  sang  in  the  tree, 
But  the  little  birds  sang  bold 
In  the  pear-tree  green  and  old, 

And  my  terror  seemed  to  soften 
Through  the  courage  of  their  glee. 

Oh,  the  birds,  the  tree,  the  ruddy 

And  white  blossoms  sleek  with  rain  ! 

Oh,  my  garden  rich  with  pansies  ! 

Oh,  my  childhood's  bright  romances  ! 
All  revive,  like  Hector's  body. 

And  I  see  them  stir  aoain. 


SLEEPING  AND  WATCHING. 

Aud  despite  life's  changes,  chances, 
And  despite  the  dcathbell's  toll, 
They  press  on  me  in  full  seeming  : 
Help,  some  angel !  stay  this  dreaming  ! 

As  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 

Sing  God's  patience  through  my  soul ! 

That  no  dreamer,  no  neglecter 
Of  the  presejQt's  work  unsped, 
I  may  wake  up  and  be  doing, 
Life's  heroic  ends  pursuing, 

Though  my  past  is  dead  as  Hector, 
And  though  Hector  is  twice  dead. 


SLEEPING  AND  WATCHING. 


Sleep  on,  baby,  on  the  floor, 

Tired  of  all  the  playing : 
Sleep  with  smile  the  sweeter  for 

That,  you  dropped  away  in. 
On  your  curls'  full  roundness  stand 

Golden  lights  serenely; 
One  cheek,  pushed  out  by  the  hand. 

Folds  the  dimple  inly  : 
Little  head  and  little  foot 

Heavy  laid  for  pleasure, 


oft  rOEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Underneath  the  lids  half  shut, 
Slants  the  shining  azure. 


Open-soul  in  noon-day  sun, 
So  you  lie  and  slumber  : 

Nothing  evil  having  done. 
Nothing  can  encumber. 


I,  who  cannot  sleep  as  well, 

Shall  I  sigh  to  view  you  ? 
Or  sigh  further  to  foretell 

All  that  may  undo  you  ? 
Nay,  keep  smiling,  little  child, 

Ere  the  sorrow  neareth  : 
I  will  smile  too  !  patience  mild 

Pleasure's  token  weareth. 
Nay,  keep  sleeping  before  loss : 

I  shall  sleep  though  losing ! 
As  by  cradle,  so  by  cross, 

Sure  is  the  reposing. 


And  God  knows  who  sees  us  twain. 
Child  at  childish  leisure, 

I  am  near  as  tired  of  pain 
As  you  seem  of  pleasure. 

Very  soon  too,  by  His  grace 
Gently  wrapt  around  me. 


THE  SERAPH  AND  POET.  57 

Shall  I  show  as  calm  a  face, 

Shall  I  sleep  as  soundly. 
Differing  in  this,  that  you 

Clasp  your  playthings,  sleeping, 
While  my  hands  shall  drop  the  few 

Given  to  my  keeping : 
Differing  in  this,  that  I 

Sleeping  shall  be  colder. 
And  in  waking  presently. 

Brighter  to  beholder : 
Differing  in  this  beside 

(Sleeper,  have  you  heard  me  ? 
Do  you  move,  and  open  wide 

Eyes  of  wonder  toward  me  ?) — 
That  while  you  I  thus  recall 

From  your  sleep,  I  solely. 
Me  from  mine  an  angel  shall, 

With  reveilHe  holy. 


THE  SERAPH  xVND  POET. 

The  seraph  sings  before  the  manifest 
God-One,  and  in  the  burning  of  the  Seven, 
And  with  the  full  life  of  consummate  Heaven 
Heaving  beneath  him  like  a  mother's  breast 
Warm  with  her  first-born's  slumber  in  that  nest. 


5S  POEMS  OP  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

The  poet  sings  upon  tlie  earth  grave-riven, 
Before  the  naughty  world,  soon  self- forgiven 
For  wronging  him, — and  in  the  darkness  pressed 
From  his  own  soul  by  worldly  weights.     Even  so, 
Sing,  seraph  with  the  glory  !  heaven  is  high ; 
Sing,  poet  with  the  sorrow  !  earth  is  low  : 
The  universe's  inward  voices  cry 
"  Amen"  to  either  song  of  joy  and  woe  ; 
Sing,  seraph, — poet, — sing  on  equally  ! 


COMFOKT. 


Speak  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low  and  sweet 
From  out  the  hallelujahs,  sweet  and  low. 
Lest  I  should  fear  and  fall,  and  miss  Thee  so 
Who  art  not  missed  by  any  that  entreat. 
Speak  to  me  as  to  Mary  at  Thy  feet ! 
And  if  no  precious  gums  my  hands  bestow. 
Let  my  tears  drop  like  amber  while  I  go 
In  reach  of  Thy  divinest  voice  complete 
In  humanest  affection — thus,  in  sooth. 
To  lose  the  sense  of  losing.     As  a  child. 
Whose  song-bird  seeks  the  wood  for  evermore. 
Is  sung  to  in  its  stead  by  mother's  mouth 
Till,  sinking  on  her  breast,  love-reconciled, 
He  sleeps  the  faster  that  he  wept  before. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH.  59 


TO  GEORGE  SAND. 


A  RECOGNITION. 


True  genius,  but  true  woman  !  dost  deny 

Tlie  woman's  nature  witli  a  manly  scorn, 

And  break  away  the  gauds  and  armlets  worn 

By  weaker  women  in  captivity  ? 

Ah,  vain  denial !  that  revolted  cry 

Is  sobbed  in  by  a  woman's  voice  forlorn, — 

Thy  woman's  hair,  my  sister,  all  unshorn 

Floats  back  dishevelled  strength  in  agon}^, 

Disproving  thy  man's  name  :  and  while  before 

The  world  thou  burnest  in  a  poet-fire, 

We  see  thy  woman-heart  beat  evermore 

Through  the  large  flame.  Beat  purer,  heart,  and  higher. 

Till  God  unsex  thee  on  the  heavenly  shore 

Where  unincarnate  spirits  purely  aspire  ! 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


"  Aud  there  was  silence  iu  heaven  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour." 

Jievdatioii. 

God,  who  with  thunders  and  great  voices  kept 
Beneath  Thy  throne,  and  stars  most  silver-paced 
Along  the  inferior  gyres,  and  open-faced 
Melodious  angels  round, — canst  intercept 
Music  with  music, — yet,  at  will,  hast  swept 


CO  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

All  back,  all  back,  (said  lie  in  Patmos  placed) 
To  fill  the  heavens  with  silence  of  the  waste 
Which  lasted  half  an  hour ! — lo,  I  who  have  wept 
All  day  and  night,  beseech  Thee  by  my  tears, 
And  by  that  dread  response  of  curse  and  groan 
Men  alternate  across  these  hemispheres, 
Vouchsafe  us  such  a  half-hour's  hush  alone, 
In  compensation  for  our  stormy  years  : 
As  heaven  has  paused  from  song,  let  earth  from  moan  ! 


A  SONG  AGAINST  SINGING. 
They  bid  me  sinu-  to  thee. 


Thou  golden-haired  and  silver-voiced  child — 
With  lips  by  no  worse  sigh  than  sleep's  defiled- 
With  eyes  unknowing  how  tears  dim  the  sight. 
And  feet  all  trembling  at  the  new  delight 
Treaders  of  earth  to  be  ! 

Ah  no  !  the  lark  may  bring 
A  song  to  thee  from  out  the  morning  cloud. 
The  merry  river  from  its  lilies  bowed, 
The  brisk  rain  from  the  trees,  the  lucky  wind 
That  half  doth  make  its  music,  half  doth  find,- 

But  / — I  may  not  sing. 


A  SONG  AGAINST  SINGING.  61 

How  could  I  think  it  rigbt, 
New-comer  on  our  earth  as,  Sweet,  thou  art, 
To  bring  a  verse  from  out  an  human  heart 
Made  heavy  with  accumulated  tears, 
And  cross  with  such  amount  of  weary  years 

Thy  day-sum  of  delight? 

Even  if  the  verse  were  said, 
Thou,  who  wouldst  clap  thy  tiny  hands  to  hear 
The  wind  or  rain,  gay  bird  or  river  clear, 
AYouldst,  at  that  sound  of  sad  humanities, 
Upturn  thy  bright  uncomprehending  eyes 

And  bid  me  play  instead. 

Therefore  no  song  of  mine, — 
But  prayer  in  place  of  singing ;  prayer  that  would 
Commend  thee  to  the  new-creating  God 
Whose  gift  is  childhood's  heart  without  its  stain 
Of  weakness,  ignorance,  and  changing  vain — 

That  gift  of  God  be  thine  ! 

So  wilt  thou  aye  be  young, 
In  lovelier  childhood  than  thy  shining  brow 
And  pretty  winning  accents  make  thee  now  : 
Yea,  sweeter  than  this  scarce  articulate  sound 
(How  sweet!)  of  "father,"  ^'mother,"  shall  be  found 

The  Abba  on  thy  tongue. 

And  so,  as  years  shall  chase 
Each  other's  shadows,  thou  wilt  less  resemble 


02  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Thy  fellows  of  the  earth  who  toil  and  tremble, 
Thau  him  thou  seest  not,  thine  angel  bold 
Yet  meek,  whose  ever-lifted  eyes  behold 
The  Ever-lovino's  face. 


LOVED  ONCE. 

I  CLASSED,  apjn-aising  once, 
Earth's  lamentable  sounds, — the  welladay, 

The  jarring  yea  and  nay. 
The  fall  of  kisses  on  unauswering  clay. 
The  sobbed  farewell,  the  welcome  mournfuller, — 

But  all  did  leaven  the  air 
With  a  less  bitter  leaven  of  sure  despair 

Than  these  words — "  I  loved  once/^ 

And  who  saith,  "  I  loved  once"  ? 
Not  angels, — whose  clear  eyes,  love,  love  foresee. 

Love,  through  eternity. 
And  by  To  Love  do  apprehend  To  Be. 
Not  Grod,  called  Love,  His  noble  crown-name  castin* 

A  lioht  too  broad  for  blastino; : 
The  great  Grod  changing  not  from  everlasting, 

Saith  never,  "  I  loved  ONCE.'^ 

Oh,  never  is  "  Loved  once" 
Thy  word,  thou  Victim-Christ,  misprized  friend ! 
Thy  cross  and  curse  may  rend, 


LOVED  ONCE.  63 

But  having  loved  Thou  lovest  to  the  end. 

This  is  man's  saying — man's  :  too  weak  to  move 

One  sphered  star  above, 
Man  desecrates  the  eternal  Grod-word  Love 

By  his  No  More,  and  Once. 

How  say  ye,  "  We  loved  once," 
Blasphemers  ?     Is  your  earth  not  cold  enow, 

Mourners,  without  that  snow  ? 
Ah,  friends,  and  would  ye  wrong  each  other  so  '^ 
And  could  ye  say  of  some  whose  love  is  known. 

Whose  prayers  have  met  your  own, 
Whose  tears  have  fallen  for  you,  whose  smiles  have  shone 

So  long, — "  We  loved  them  once"  ? 

Could  ye,  "  We  loved  her  once," 
Say  calm  of  me,  sweet  friends,  when  out  of  sight  ? 

When  hearts  of  better  right 
Stand  in  between  me  and  your  happy  light  ? 
Or  when,  as  flowers  kept  too  long  in  the  shade. 

Ye  find  my  colors  fade. 
And  all  that  is  not  love  in  me,  decayed  ? 

Such  words — Ye  loved  me  once  ! 

Could  ye,  "  We  loved  her  once" 
Say  cold  of  me  when  further  put  away 

In  earth's  sepulchral  clay, 
When  mute  the  lips  which  deprecate  to-day  ? 
Not  so  !  not  then — least  then  !     When  life  is  shriven 

And  death's  full  joy  is  given, — 


64  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Of  those  who  sit  and  love  you  up  in  heaven, 
Say  not,  "  We  loved  them  once." 

Say  never,  ye  loved  once  : 
God  is  too  near  above,  the  grave,  beneath, 

And  all  our  moments  breathe 
Too  quick  in  mysteries  of  life  and  death, 
For  such  a  word.     The  eternities  avenge 

Affections  light  of  range. 
There  comes  no  change  to  justify  that  change, 

Whatever  comes — Loved  once  ! 

And  yet  that  same  word  once 
Is  humanly  acceptive.     Kings  have  said 

Shaking  a  discrowned  head, 
"We  ruled  once," — dotards,  "We  once  taught  and  led. 
Cripples  once  danced  i'  the  vines,  and  bards  approved, 

Were  once  by  scornings  moved  : 
But  love  strikes  one  hour — love  !  those  never  loved 

Who  dream  that  they  loved  once. 


A  CHILD'S  THOUGHT  OF  GOD. 

They  say  that  God  lives  very  high ; 

But  if  you  look  above  the  pines 
You  cannot  see  our  God  )  and  why  ? 

And  if  you  dig  down  in  the  mines 
You  never  see  Him  in  the  gold ; 
Though  from  Him  all  that's  glory  shines. 


THE  SLEEP.  05 

God  is  so  good,  He  wears  a  fold 

Of  heaven  and  earth  across  His  face — 
Like  secrets  kept,  for  love,  untold. 

But  still  I  feel  that  His  embrace 

Slides  down  by  thrills,  through  all  things  made. 
Through  sight  and  sound  of  every  place. 

As  if  my  tender  mother  laid 

On  my  shut  lips  her  kisses'  pressure, 

Half-waking  me  at  night,  and  said 

"  Who  kissed  you  through  the  dark,  dear  guesser  ?" 


THE  SLEEP. 

"  He  giveth  Ilis  beloved  sleep." — Psalm  cxxvii.  2. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  Grod  that  are 
Borne  inward  into  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep"  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved, 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows  ?- 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 
6* 


66  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep, 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake  : 

He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved  I'^  we  sometimes  saj, 

Who  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep : 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 

Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

0  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
0  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 
0  delved  gold,  the  wallers  heap ! 
0  strife,  0  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap : 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed. 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man 


THE  WEAKEST  THING.  67 

Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep ; 
But  angels  say,  and  through  the  word 
I  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 

Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show. 

That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 

Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 

Would  chikUike  on  His  love  repose 

Who  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep. 
Let  One,  most  loving  of  you  all. 
Say,  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall ! 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep.'' 


THE  WEAKEST  THING. 

Which  is  the  w^eakest  thing  of  all 

Mine  heart  can  ponder  ? 
The  sun,  a  little  cloud  can  pall 

With  darkness  yonder? 
The  cloud,  a  little  wind  can  move 

Where'er  it  Usteth  ? 
The  wind,  a  little  leaf  above, 

Though  sere,  resisteth  ? 


68  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

What  time  that  yellow  leaf  was  green, 

My  days  were  gladder ; 
But  now,  whatever  Spring  may  mean, 

I  must  grow  sadder. 
Ah  me  !  a  leaf  with  sighs  can  wring 

My  lips  asunder  ? 
Then  is  mine  heart  the  weakest  thine: 

Itself  can  ponder. 

Yet,  Heart,  when  sun  and  cloud  are  pined 

And  drop  together. 
And  at  a  blast  which  is  not  wind, 
^  The  forests  wither. 

Thou,  from  the  darkening  deathly  curse. 

To  glory  breakest, — 
The  strongest  of  the  universe 

Guardiuo;  the  weakest ! 


A  WOMAN'S  SHORTCOMINGS. 

She  has  laughed  as  softly  as  if  she  sighed, 

She  has  counted  six,  and  over. 
Of  a  purse  well  filled,  and  a  heart  well  tried — 

Oh,  each  a  worthy  lover ! 
They  "  give  her  time  f'  for  her  soul  must  slip 

Where  the  world  has  set  the  grooving : 
She  will  lie  to  none  with  her  fair  red  lip — 

But  love  seeks  truer  loving. 


A  WOMAN  S  SHORTCOMINGS.  69 

She  trembles  her  fan  in  a  sweetness  dumb, 

As  her  thoughts  were  beyond  recalling, 
With  a  glance  for  one^  and  a  glance  for  some. 

From  her  eyelids  rising  and  tailing; 
Speaks  common  words  with  a  blushful  air, 

Hears  bold  words,  unreproving; 
But  her  silence  says — what  she  never  will  swear — 

And  love  seeks  better  loving. 

Go,  lady,  lean  to  the  night-guitar 

And  droj)  a  smile  to  the  bringer. 
Then  smile  as  sweetly,  when  he  is  far. 

At  the  voice  of  an  in-door  singer. 
Bask  tenderly  beneath  tender  eyes ; 

Glance  lightly,  on  their  removiug ; 
And  join  new  vows  to  old  perjuries — 

But  dare  not  call  it  loving. 

Unless  you  can  think,  when  the  song  is  done, 

No  other  is  soft  in  the  rhythm ; 
Unless  you  can  feel,  when  left  by  One, 

That  all  men  else  go  with  him ; 
Unless  you  can  know,  when  upraised  by  his  breath, 

That  your  beauty  itself  wants  proving ; 
Unless  you  can  swear,  "  For  life,  for  death  !" — 

Oh,  fear  to  call  it  loving  ! 

Unless  you  can  muse  in  a  crowd  all  day, 
On  the  absent  face  that  fixed  you ; 


70  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Unless  you  can  love,  as  the  angels  may, 
With  the  breadth  of  heaven  betwixt  you ; 

Unless  3^ou  can  dream  that  his  faith  is  fast, 
Through  behoving  and  uubehoving; 

Unless  you  can  die  when  the  dream  is  past — 


Oh,  never  call  it  loving ! 


A  MAN'S  REQUIREMENTS. 

Love  me,  Sweet,  with  all  thou  art, 
Feeling,  thinking,  seeing; 

Love  me  in  the  lightest  part. 
Love  me  in  full  being. 

Love  me  with  thine  open  youth 

In  its  frank  surrender  ; 
With  the  vowing  of  thy  mouth, 

With  its  silence  tender. 

Love  me  with  thine  azure  eyes, 
Made  for  earnest  granting; 

Taking  color  from  the  skies, 

Can  Heaven's  truth  be  wanting  ? 

Love  me  with  their  lids,  that  fall 
Snow-like  at  first  meeting ; 

Love  me  with  thine  heart,  that  all 
Neiiiihbors  then  see  beating. 


A  MAN  S  REQUIREMENTS.  71 

Love  me  with  thine  hand  stretched  out 

Freely — open-minded : 
Love  me  with  thy  loitering  foot, — 

Hearing  one  behind  it. 

Love  me  with  thy  voice,  that  turns 

Sudden  faint  above  me  -, 
Love  me  with  thy  blush  that  burns 

When  I  murmur,  Love  me  ! 

Love  me  with  thy  thinking  soul, 

Break  it  to  love-sighing ; 
Love  me  with  thy  thoughts  that  roll 

On  through  living — dying. 

Love  me  in  thy  gorgeous  airs, 

When  the  world  has  crowned  thee; 

Love  me,  kneeling  at  thy  prayers. 
With  the  angels  round  thee. 

Love  me  pure,  as  musers  do, 

Up  the  woodlands  shady  : 
Love  me  gaily,  fast  and  true, 

As  a  winsome  lady. 

Through  all  hopes  that  keep  us  brave, 

Further  off  or  nigher, 
Love  me  for  the  house  and  grave, 

And  for  something  higher. 


POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Thus,  if  thou  wilt  prove  me,  Dear, 

Woman's  love  no  fable, 
/will  love  thee — half  a  year — 

As  a  man  is  able. 


INCLUSIONS. 

Oh,  wilt  thou  have  my  hand.  Dear,  to  lie  along  in  thine  ? 
As  a  little  stone  in  a  running  stream,  it  seems  to  lie  and  pine. 
Now  drop  the  poor  pale  hand,  Dear,  unfit  to  plight  with  thine. 

Oh,  wilt  thou  have  my  cheek.  Dear,  drawn  closer  to  thine  own  ? 
My  cheek  is  white,  my  cheek  is  worn,  by  many  a  tear  run  down. 
Now  leave  a  little  space,  Dear,  lest  it  should  wet  thine  own. 

Oh,  must  thou  have  my  soul,  Dear,  commingled  with  thy  soul  ? — 
Red  grows  the  cheek,  and  warm  the  hand ;  the  part  is  in  the  whole  : 
Nor  hands  nor  cheeks  keep  separate,  when  soul  is  joined  to  soul. 


LOVE     FOR    LOVE. 

FROM  THE  POKTUGDESE. 

If  thou  must  love  me.  let  it  be  for  nought 

Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 

"  I  love  her  for  her  smile — her  look — licr  way 


A  LOCK  OF  HAIR.  73 

Of  speaking  gently, — for  a  trick  of  thought 

That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 

A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day" — 

For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved,  may 

Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee, — -add  love,  so  wrought, 

May  be  unwrought  so.      Neither  love  me  for 

Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry, — 

A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 

Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby  ! 

But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 

Thou  may'st  love  on,  through  love's  eternity. 


A   LOCK   OF   HAIR. 


FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE. 


I  NEVER  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 
To  a  man,  Dearest,  except  this  to  thee. 
Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thoughtfully 
I  ring  out  to  the  full  brown  length  and  say 
"  Take  it."     My  day  of  youth  went  yesterday  ; 
My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's  glee, 
Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle-tree, 
As  girls  do,  any  more  :  it  only  may 
Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks  the  mark  of  tears, 
Taught  dropping  from  the  head  that  hangs  aside 
Through  sorrow's  trick.    I  thought  the  funeral-shenr. 
Would  take  this  first,  but  Love  is  justified, — 
7 


74  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Take  it  tliou, — finding  pure,  from  all  those  years, 
The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when  she  died. 


CALL  ME  BY  MY  PET-NAME. 

FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE. 

Yes,  call  me  by  my  pet-name  !  let  me  hear 
The  name  I  used  to  run  at,  when  a  child, 
From  innocent  play,  and  leave  the  cowslips  piled, 
To  glance  up  in  some  face  that  proved  me  dear 
With  the  look  of  its  eyes.     I  miss  the  clear 
Fond  voices  which,  being  drawn  and  reconciled 
Into  the  music  of  Heaven's  undefiled. 
Call  me  no  longer.     Silence  on  the  bier, 
While  I  call  God— call  God  !— So  let  thy  mouth 
Be  heir  to  those  who  are  now  exanimate. 
Gather  the  north  flowers  to  complete  the  south. 
And  catch  the  early  love  up  in  the  late. 
Y^es,  call  me  by  that  name, — and  I,  in  truth, 
With  the  same  heart,  will  answer  and  not  wait. 


THE   KISS. 


FROM  THE   PORTUGUESE. 


First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 
The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write ; 


THE  BEST  THING  IN  THE  WORLD.  75 

And  ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean  and  white, 

Slow  to  world-greetings,  quick  with  its  ''Oh,  list," 

When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 

I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my  sight, 

Than  that  first  kiss.     The  second  passed  in  height 

The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  half  missed. 

Half  falling  on  the  hair.     Oh  beyond  meed  ! 

That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love's  own  crown. 

With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 

The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 

In  perfect,  purple  state ;  since  when,  indeed, 

I  have  been  proud  and  said,  "  My  love,  my  own." 


THE  BEST  THING  IN  THE  WORLD. 

What's  the  best  thing  in  the  world? 
June-rose,  by  May-dew  impearled ; 
Sweet  south-wind,  that  means  no  rain ; 
Truth,  not  cruel  to  a  friend  • 
Pleasure,  not  in  haste  to  end ; 
Beauty,  not  self-decked  and  curled 
Till  its  pride  is  over-plain ; 
Light,  that  never  makes  you  wink ; 
Memory,  that  gives  no  pain  ; 
Love,  when,  so,  you're  loved  again. 
What's  the  best  thing  in  the  world  ? 
— Something  out  of  it,  I  think. 


76  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  HUMAN. 

'  There  is  no  God,"  the  foolish  saith, 

But  none,  "  There  is  no  sorrow," 
And  nature  oft  the  cry  of  faith, 

In  bitter  need  will  borrow  : 
Eyes,  which  the  preacher  could  not  school. 

By  wayside  graves  are  raised, 
And  lips  say,  "  God  be  pitiful," 

Who  ne'er  said,  "  God  be  praised." 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

The  tempest  stretches  from  the  steep 

The  shadow  of  its  coming, 
The  beasts  grow  tame  and  near  us  creep, 

As  help  were  in  the  human  • 
Yet,  while  the  cloud-wheels  roll  and  grind, 

We  spirits  tremble  under — 
The  hills  have  echoes,  but  we  find 

No  answer  for  the  thunder. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

The  battle  hurtles  on  the  plains, 
Earth  feels  new  scythes  upon  her ; 

We  reap  our  brothers  for  the  wains, 
And  call  the  harvest — honour  : 

Braw  face  to  face,  front  line  to  hne, 
One  imau'C  all  inherit, — 


y^- 


'v'/;i^4/v:^-^/''^  '^^^y^^-^'- 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  HUMAN.  77 

Then  kill,  curse  on,  by  that  same  sign, 
Clay — clay,  and  spirit — sj^irit. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God ! 

The  plague  runs  festering  through  the  town, 

And  never  a  bell  is  tolling, 
And  corpses,  jostled  'neath  the  moon. 

Nod  to  the  dead-cart's  rolhng : 
The  young  child  calleth  for  the  cup, 

The  strong  man  brings  it  weeping, 
The  mother  from  her  babe  looks  up, 

And  shrieks  away  its  sleeping. 

Be  pitiful,  0  Ood  ! 

The  plague  of  gold  strikes  far  and  near, 

And  deep  and  strong  it  enters ; 
This  purple  chimar  which  we  wear, 

Makes  madder  than  the  centaur's  : 
Our  thoughts  grow  blank,  our  words  grow  strange, 

We  cheer  the  pale  gold-diggers, 
Each  soul  is  worth  so  much  on  'Change, 

And  marked,  like  sheep,  with  figures. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

The  curse  of  gold  upon  the  land 

The  lack  of  bread  enforces ; 
The  rail-cars  snort  from  strand  to  strand, 

Like  more  of  Death's  White  horses : 
The  rich  preach  '^rights"  and  "future  days,'' 


And  hear  no  angel  scoflSng, 


7* 


78  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

The  poor  die  mute,  with  starving  gaze 
On  corn-shij)s  in  the  offing. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

We  meet  together  at  the  feast, 

To  private  mirth  betake  us ; 
We  stare  down  in  the  winecup,  lest 

Some  vacant  chair  should  shake  us  : 
We  name  delight,  and  pledge  it  round — 

"It  shall  be  ours  to-morrow  V 
God's  seraphs,  do  your  voices  sound 

As  sad,  in  naming  sorrow  ? 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

We  sit  together,  with  the  skies, 

The  steadfast  skies,  above  us, 
We  look  into  each  other's  eyes, 

"  And  how  long  will  you  love  us  ?" 
The  eyes  grow  dim  with  prophecy, 

The  voices,  low  and  breathless, — 
''  Till  death  us  part !" — 0  words,  to  be 

Our  best,  for  love  the  deathless  I 

Be  pitiful,  0  God ! 

We  tremble  by  the  harmless  bed 

Of  one  loved  and  departed  : 
Our  tears  drop  on  the  lips  that  said 

Last  night,  "  Be  stronger  hearted  !" 
0  God, — to  clasp  those  fingers  close. 

And  yet  to  feel  so  lonely ! 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  HUMAN.  79 

To  see  a  light  upon  such  brows, 
Which  is  the  daylight  only  ! 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

The  happy  children  come  to  us. 

And  look  up  in  our  faces ; 
They  ask  us — "  Was  it  thus,  and  thus, 

When  we  were  in  their  places  ?" — 
We  cannot  speak; — we  see  anew 

The  hills  we  used  to  live  in. 
And  feel  our  mother's  smile  press  through 

The  kisses  she  is  giving. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

We  pray  together  at  the  kirk 

For  mercy,  mercy  solely  : 
Hands  weary  with  the  evil  work, 

We  lift  them  to  the  Holy. 
The  corpse  is  calm  below  our  knee, 

Its  spirit  bright  before  Thee — 
Between  them,  worse  than  either,  we — 

Without  the  rest  or  glory. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

We  leave  the  communing  of  men. 

The  murmur  of  the  passions, 
And  live  alone,  to  live  again 

With  endless  generations : 
Are  we  so  brave  ? — The  sea  and  sky 

In  silence  lift  their  mirrors, 


80  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFEECTIONS. 

And,  glassed  therein,  our  spirits  high 
Recoil  from  their  own  terrors. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

We  sit  on  hills  our  childhood  wist, 

Woods,  hamlets,  streams,  beholding  : 
The  sun  strikes  through  the  farthest  mist 

The  city's  spire  to  golden  : 
The  city's  golden  spire  it  was. 

When  hope  and  health  were  strongest. 
But  now  it  is  the  churchyard  grass 

We  look  upon  the  longest. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

And  soon  all  vision  waxeth  dull ; 

Men  whisper,  "  He  is  dying  ;'^ 
We  cry  no  more  "  Be  pitiful !" 

We  have  no  strength  for  crying : 
No  strength,  no  need.     Then,  soul  of  mine, 

Look  up  and  triumph  rather — 
Lo,  in  the  depth  of  God's  Divine, 

The  Son  adjures  the  Father, 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 


MY   KATE. 

She  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  T  know. 

And  yet  all  your  best  made  of  sunshine  and  snow 


MY  KATE.  81 

Drop  to  shade,  melt  to  nought  in  the  long-trodden  ways, 
While  she's  still  remembered  on  warm  and  cold  days — 

My  Kate. 

Her  air  had  a  meaning,  her  movements  a  grace; 
You  turned  from  the  fairest  to  gaze  on  her  face  : 
And  when  you  had  once  seen  her  forehead  and  mouth, 
You  saw  as  distinctly  her  soul  and  her  truth — 

My  Kate. 

Such  a  blue  inner  light  from  her  eyelids  outbroke, 
You  looked  at  her  silence  and  ftmcied  she  spoke  : 
Whtn  she  did,  so  peculiar  yet  soft  was  the  tone. 
Though  the  loudest  spoke  also,  you  heard  her  alone — 

My  Kate. 

I  doubt  if  she  said  to  you  much  that  could  act 
As  a  thought  or  suggestion  :   she  did  not  attract 
In  the  sense  of  the  brilliant  or  wise  :  I  infer 
'Twas  her  thinking  of  others,  made  you  think  of  her — 

My   Kate. 

She  never  found  fault  with  you,  never  implied 
Your  wrong  by  her  right;  and  yet  men  at  her  side 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  through  the  whole  town 
The  children  were  gladder  that  pulled  at  her  gown — 

My  Kate. 

None  knelt  at  her  feet  confessed  lovers  in  thrall ; 
They  knelt  more  to  God  than  they  used, — that  was  all : 


82  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

If  you  praised  her  as  charming,  some  asked  what  you  meant, 
But  the  charm  of  her  presence  was  felt  when  she  went — 

My  Kate. 

The  weak  and  the  gentle,  the  ribald  and  rude, 
She  took  as  she  found  them,  and  did  them  all  good; 
It  always  was  so  with  her — see  what  you  have  ! 
She  has  made  the  grass  greener  even  here  .  .  with  her  grave- 

My  Kate. 

My  dear  one  ! — when  thou  wast  alive  with  the  rest, 
I  held  thee  the  sweetest  and  loved  thee  the  best : 
And  now  thou  art  dead,  shall  I  not  take  thy  part 
As  thy  smiles  used  to  do  for  thyself,  my  sweet  Heart — 

My  Kate? 


AMY^S  CRUELTY. 

Fair  Amy  of  the  terraced  house, 

A^ssist  me  to  discover 
Why  you  who  would  not  hurt  a  mouse 

Can  torture  so  your  lover. 

You  give  your  coffee  to  the  cat, 
Y"ou  stroke  the  dog  for  coming, 

And  all  your  face  grows  kinder  at 
The  little  brown  bee's  humming. 

But  when  he  haunts  your  door  .  .  the  town 
Marks  coming  and  marks  going  .  . 


AMY  S  CRUELTY.  83 

You  seem  to  have  stitched  your  eyelids  down 
To  that  long  piece  of  sewing  ! 

You  never  give  a  look,  not  you, 

Nor  drop  him  a  "  Grood  morning," 
To  keep  his  long  day  warm  and  blue, 

So  fretted  by  your  scorning. 

She  shook  her  head — "The  mouse  and  bee 

For  crumb  or  flower  will  linger : 
The  dog  is  happy  at  my  knee. 

The  cat  purrs  at  my  finger. 

"  But  he  .  .  to  him,  the  least  thing  given 

Means  great  things  at  a  distance; 
He  wants  my  world,  my  sun,  my  heaven, 

Soul,  body,  whole  existence. 

"  They  say  love  gives  as  well  as  takes; 

But  I'm  a  simple  maiden, — 
My  mother's  first  smile  when  she  wakes 

I  still  have  smiled  and  prayed  in. 

"  I  only  know  my  mother's  love 

Which  gives  all  and  asks  nothing; 
And  this  new  loving  sets  the  groove 

Too  much  the  way  of  loathing. 

"Unless  he  gives  me  all  in  change, 

I  forfeit  all  things  by  him  : 
The  risk  is  terrible  and  strange — 

I  tremble,  doubt,  .  .  deny  him. 


84  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

"  He's  sweetest  friend,  or  hardest  foe, 

Best  angel,  or  worst  devil; 
I  either  hate  or  .  .  love  him  so. 

I  can't  be  merely  civil ! 

''You  trust  a  woman  who  puts  forth, 
Her  blossoms  thick  as  summer's  ? 

You  think  she  dreams  what  love  is  worth, 
Who  casts  it  to  new-comers? 

"Such  love's  a  cowslip-ball  to  fling, 
A  moment's  pretty  pastime; 

/  give  .  .  all  me,  if  anything, 
The  first  time  and  the  last  time. 


Dear  neighbor  of  the  trellised  house, 


A  man  should  murmur  never, 
bough  treated  worse  tli 
Till  doted  on  for  ever 


Though  treated  worse  than  dog  and  mouse, 


GARIBALDI. 

He  bent  his  head  upon  his  breast 
Wherein  his  lion-heart  lay  sick : — 
"  Perhaps  we  are  not  ill-repaid ; 

Perhaps  this  is  not  a  true  test ; 

Perhaps  that  was  not  a  foul  trick ; 
Perhaps  none  wronged,  and  none  betrayed. 


GARIBALDI.  85 

"Perhaps  the  people's  vote  which  here 

United,  there  may  disunite, 

And  both  be  lawful  as  they  think; 
Perhaps  a  patriot  statesman,  dear 

For  chartering  nations,  can  with  right 

Disfranchise  those  who  hold  the  ink. 

"Perhaps  men's  wisdom  is  not  craft; 

Men's  greatness,  not  a  selfish  greed ; 

Men's  justice,  not  the  safer  side ; 
Perhaps  even  women,  when  they  laughed. 

Wept,  thanked  us  that  the  land  was  freed, 

Not  wholly  (though  they  kissed  us)  lied. 

"Perhaps  no  more  than  this  we  meant, 

When  up  at  Austria's  guns  we  flew. 

And  quenched  them  with  a  cry  apiece, 
Italia! — Yet  a  dream  was  sent  .  . 

The  little  house  my  father  knew. 

The  olives  and  the  palms  of  Nice." 

He  paused,  and  drew  his  sword  out  slow. 

Then  pored  upon  the  blade  intent, 

As  if  to  read  some  written  thing ; 
While  many  murmured, — "He  will  go 

In  that  despairing  sentiment 

And  break  his  sword  before  the  King." 

He  poring  still  upon  the  blade, 

His  large  lid  quivered,  something  fell. 


86  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  "  I  was  not  born 
With  such  fine  brains  to  treat  and  trade, — 
And  if  a  woman  knew  it  well, 
Her  falsehood  only  meant  her  scorn. 

"  Yet  through  Yarese's  cannon-smoke 
My  eye  saw  clear:  men  feared  this  man 
At  Como,  where  this  sword  could  seal 

Death's  protocol  with  every  stroke : 

And  now  .  .  the  drop  there  scarcely  can 
Impair  the  keenness  of  the  steel. 

''  So  man  and  sword  may  have  their  use; 

And  if  the  soil  beneath  my  foot 

In  valor's  act  is  forfeited, 
I'll  strike  the  harder,  take  my  dues 

Out  nobler,  and  all  loss  confute 

From  ampler  heavens  above  my  head. 

"  My  King,  Kiug  Yictor,  I  am  thine! 

So  much  Nice-dust  as  what  I  am 

(To  make  our  Italy)  must  cleave. 
Forgive  that."     Forward  with  a  sign 

He  went. 

You've  seen  the  telegram  '{ 

Palermo's  tahen.  we  helieve.. 


ONLY  A  CURL.  87 


ONLY  A  CURL. 


Friends  of  faces  unknown  and  a  land 

LTnvisited  over  the  sea, 
Who  tell  me  how  lonely  you  stand 
With  a  single  gold  curl  in  the  hand 

Held  up  to  be  looked  at  by  me, — 

While  you  ask  me  to  ponder  and  say 
What  a  father  and  mother  can  do, 
With  the  bright  fellow-locks  put  away 
Out  of  reach,  beyond  kiss,  in  the  clay 
Where  the  violets  press  nearer  than  you. 

Shall  I  speak  like  a  poet,  or  run 

Into  weak  woman's  tears  for  relief? 
Oh,  children  ! — I  never  lost  one, — 
Yet  my  arm's  round  my  own  little  son, 
And  Love  knows  the  secret  of  Grrief. 

And  I  feel  what  it  must  be  and  is. 
When  God  draws  a  new  angel  so 
Through  the  house  of  a  man  up  to  His, 
With  a  murmur  of  music,  you  miss, 
And  a  rapture  of  light,  you  forego. 

How  you  think,  staring  on  at  the  door, 

Where  the  face  of  your  angel  flashed  in. 
That  its  brightness,  familiar  before. 
Burns  oiF  from  you  ever  the  more 
For  the  dark  of  your  sorrow  and  sin. 


POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

"God  lent  him  and  takes  him,"  you  sigh; 

— Nay,  there  let  me  break  with  your  jjain  : 
God  's  generous  in  giving,  say  I, — ; 
And  the  thing  which  He  gives,  I  deny 

That  He  ever  can  take  back  again. 

He  gives  what  He  gives.     I  appeal 

To  all  who  bear  babes — in  the  hour 
When  the  veil  of  the  body  we  feel 
Rent  round  us, — while  torments  reveal 
The  motherhood's  advent  in  power, 

And  the  babe  cries  I — has  each  of  us  known 

By  apocalypse  (God  being  there 
Full  in  nature)  the  child  is  our  own, 
Life  of  life,  love  of  love,  moan  of  moan. 

Through  all  changes,  all  times,  everywhere. 

He 's  ours  and  for  ever.     Believe, 

0  father ! — 0  mother,  look  back 
To  the  first  love's  assurance.     To  give 
Means  with  God  not  to  tempt  or  deceive 

With  a  cup  thrust  in  Benjamin's  sack. 

He  gives  what  He  gives.     Be  content ! 

He  resumes  nothing  given, — be  sure  ! 
God  lend  ?   Where  the  usurers  lent 
In  His  temple,  indignant  He  went 

And  scourged  away  all  those  impure. 


MOTHER  AND  POET. 

He  lends  not  3  but  gives  to  the  end, 
As  He  loves  to  the  end.     If  it  seem 

That  He  draws  back  a  gift,  comprehend 

'Tis  to  add  to  it  rather, — amend, 
And  finish  it  up  to  your  dream, — 

Or  keep, — as  a  mother  will  toys 

Too  costly,  though  given  by  herself, 

Till  the  room  shall  be  stiller  from  noise, 

And  the  children  more  fit  for  such  joys, 

Kept  over  their  heads  on  the  shelf. 

So  look  up,  friends !  you,  who  indeed 

Have  possessed  in  your  house  a  sweet  piece 
Of  the  Heaven  which  men  strive  for,  must  need 
Be  more  earnest  than  others  are, — speed 
Where  they  loiter,  persist  where  they  cease. 

You  know  how  one  angel  smiles  there. 

Then  weep  not.     ^Tis  easy  for  you 
To  be  drawn  by  a  single  gold  hair 
Of  that  curl,  from  earth's  storm  and  despair, 

To  the  safe  place  above  us.     Adieu. 


MOTHER  AND  POET. 

TURIN,  AFTER  NEWS  FROM  GAETA,  1861. 

Dead  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 


90  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  A>.'D  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Dead !   botli  my  boys !     When  you  sit  at  the  feast 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  ! 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  saidj 

But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agonized  here, 

— The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on  in  her  head 
For  ever  instead. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at?      Oh,  vain  ! 

What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her  breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile  at  the  pain  ? 

Ah  boys,  how  you  hurt  I  you  were  strong  as  you  pressed, 
And  I  proud,  by  that  test. 

What  art  's  for  a  woman  ?     To  hold  on  her  knees 

Both  darlings !  to  feel  all  their  arms  round  her  throat, 

Cling,  strangle  a  little !  to  sew  by  degrees 

And  ^broider  the  long-clothes  and  neat  little  coat ; 
To  dream  and  to  doat. 

To  teach  them  .  .  It  stings  there !     /  made  them  indeed 
Speak  plain  the  word  countri/.     /taught  them,  no  doubt. 

That  a  country  's  a  thing  men  should  die  for  at  need. 
2  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 

And  when  their  eyes  flashed  .  .  0  my  beautiful  eyes !  .  . 
/exulted;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the  wheels 


MOTHER  AND  POET.  91 

Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.     But  then  the  surprise 

When  one  sits  quite  alone !     Then  one  weeps,  then  one  kneels ! 
God,  how  the  house  feels  I 

At  first,  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters  moiled 
With  my  kisses, — of  camp-life  and  glory,  and  how 

They  both  loved  me;  and,  soon  coming  home  to  be  spoiled, 
In  return  would  fan  ofi"  every  fly  from  my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin:  "  Ancona  was  free  I" 
And  some  one  came  out  of  the  cheers  in  the  street. 

With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something  to  me. 
My  Gruido  was  dead !     I  fell  down  at  his  feet, 
While  they  cheered  in  the  street. 

I  bore  it;  friends  soothed  me;  my  grief  looked  sublime 

As  the  ransom  of  Italy.     One  boy  remained 
To  be  leant  on  and  walked  with,  recalling  the  time 

When  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both  of  us  strained 
To  the  height  he  had  gained. 

And  letters  still  came,  shorter,  sadder,  more  strong, 
Writ  now  but  in  one  hand,  "I  was  not  to  faint, — 

One  loved  me  for  two — would  be  with  me  ere  long : 
And  Viva  V  Italia  I — lie  died  for,  our  saint. 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 

My  Nanni  would  add,  "he  was  safe,  and  aware 

Of  a  presence  that  turned  oflf  the  balls, — was  imprest 


92  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

It  was  Guido  himself,  who  knew  what  I  could  bear, 
And  how  't  was  impossible,  quite  dispossessed, 
To  live  on  for  the  rest.'' 

On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph-line 

Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Graeta : — Shot. 

Tell  his  mother.     Ah,  ah,  "his,"  "their"  mother, — not  "  mine," 
No  voice  says  ^'  M^  mother"  again  to  me.     What ! 
You  think  Gruido  forgot  ? 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy  that,  dizzy  with  Heaven, 
They  drop  earth's  affections,  conceive  not  of  woe? 

I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately  forgiven 
Through  That  Love  and  Sorrow  which  reconciled  so 
The  Above  and  Below. 

0  Christ  of  the  five  wounds,  who  look'dst  through  the  dark 
To  the  face  of  Thy  mother !   consider,  I  pray. 

How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate,  mark, 

Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with  eyes  turned  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say ! 

Both  boys  dead?  but  that's  out  of  nature.     We  all 

Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must  always  keep  one. 

'Twere  imbecile,  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall; 
And,  when  Italy's  made,  for  what  end  is  it  done 
If  we  have  not  a  son  ? 

Ah,  ah,  ah  !  when  Glaeta's  taken,  what  then? 

When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more  at  her  sport 


MOTHER  AND  POET.  93 

Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crashing  souls  out  of  men  ? 
When  the  guus  of  Cavalli  with  final  retort 
Have  cut  the  game  short? 

When  A^enice  and  Rome  keep  their  new  jubilee, 

When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  white,  green  and  red, 

When  you  have  your  country  from  mountain  to  sea. 
When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on  his  head, 
(And  1  have  my  Dead) — 

What  then  ?     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah,  ring  your  bells  low, 
And  burn  your  lights  faintly !     My  country  is  tliere^ 

Above  the  star  pricked  by  the  last  peak  of  snow : 
My  Italy's  there,  with  my  brave  civic  Pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair! 

Forgive  me.     Some  women  bear  children  in  strength, 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in  self-scorn; 

But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring  us  at  length 
Into  wail  such  as  this — and  we  sit  on  forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

Dead  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 

And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 
Both !  both  my  boys !     If  in  keeping  the  feast 

You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  I 

[This  was  Laura  Savio,  of  Turin,  a  poetess  and  patriot,  whose  sons  were 
killed  at  Ancona  and  Gaeta.] 


91  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY. 

I. 

Emperor,  Emperor! 
From  the  centre  to  the  shore, 
From  the  Seine  back  to  the  Rhine, 
Stood  eight  milUons  up  and  swore 
By  their  manhood's  right  divine 

So  to  elect  and  legislate, 
This  man  should  renew  the  line 
Broken  in  a  strain  of  fate 
And  leagued  kings  at  Waterloo, 
When  the  people's  hands  let  go. 

Emperor 

Evermore. 

II. 

With  a  universal  shout 
They  took  the  old  regalia  out 
From  an  open  grave  that  day  ; 
From  a  grave  that  would  not  cjpse, 
Where  the  first  Napoleon  lay 

Expectant,  in  repose. 
As  still  as  Merlin,  with  his  conquering  face 
Turned  up  in  its  unquenchable  appeal 
To  men  and  heroes  of  the  advancing  race, 

Prepare  to  set  the  seal 
Of  what  has  been  on  what  shall  be. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY.  95 

III. 

The  thinkers  stood  aside 

To  let  the  nation  act. 
Some  hated  the  new-constituted  fact 
Of  empire,  as  pride  treading  on  their  pride. 
Some  quailed,  lest  what  was  poisonous  in  the  past 
Should  graft  itself  in  that  Druidic  bough 
On  this  green  now. 

Some  cursed,  because  at  last 
The  open  heavens  to  which  they  had  look'd  in  vain 
For  many  a  golden  fall  of  marvellous  rain 

AYere  closed  in  brass  -,  and  some 
Wept  on  because  a  gone  thing  could  not  come; 
And  some  were  silent,  doubting  all  things  for 
That  popular  conviction, — evermore 
Emperor. 

IV. 

That  day  I  did  not  hate 

Nor  doubt,  nor  quail,  nor  curse. 

I,  reverencing  the  people,  did  not  bate 

My  reverence  of  their  deed  and  oracle. 

Nor  vainly  prate 

Of  better  and  of  worse 
Against  the  great  conclusion  of  their  will. 

And  yet,  0  voice  and  verse. 
Which  God  set  in  me  to  acclaim  and  sing- 
Conviction,  exaltation,  aspiration, 
We  gave  no  music  to  the  patent  thing, 


96  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Nor  spared  a  lioly  rhythm  to  throb  and  swim 

About  the  name  of  him 
Translated  to  the  sphere  of  domination 

By  democratic  passion ! 

I  was  not  used,  at  least, 

Nor  can  be,  now  or  then, 

To  stroke  the  ermine  beast 

On  any  kind  of  throne, 
(Though  builded  by  a  nation  for  its  own,) 
And  swell  the  surging  choir  for  kings  of  men — 
"  Emperor 
Evermore." 

V. 

But  now,  Napoleon,  now 
That,  leaving  far  behind  the  purple  throng 

Of  vulgar  monarchs,  thou 

Tread'st  higher  in  thy  deed 

Than  stair  of  throne  can  lead 

To  help  in  the  hour  of  wrong 
The  broken  hearts  of  nations  to  be  strong. — 
Now,  lifted  as  thou  art 
To  the  level  of  pure  song, 
We  stand  to  meet  thee  on  these  Alpine  snows! 
And  while  the  palpitating  peaks  break  out 
Ecstatic  from  somnambular  repose 
With  answers  to  the  presence  and  the  shf»ut. 
We,  poets  of  the  people,  who  take  part 
With  elemental  justice,  natural  right. 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY.  97 

Join  in  our  echoes  also,  nor  refrain. 
We  meet  thee,  0  Napoleon,  at  this  height 
At  last,  and  find  thee  great  enough  to  praise. 
Receive  the  poet's  chrism,  which  smells  beyond 

The  priest's  and  pass  thy  ways ; — 
An  English  poet  warns  thee  to  maintain 
God's  word,  not  England's  : — let  His  truth  be  true 
And  all  men  liars !  with  His  truth  respond 
To  all  men's  lie.     Exalt  the  sword  and  smite 
On  that  long  anvil  of  the  Apennine 
Where  Austria  forged  the  Italian  chain  in  view 
Of  seven  consenting  nations,  sparks  of  fine 

Admonitory  light. 
Till  men's  eyes  wink  before  convictions  new. 
Flash  in  God's  justice  to  the  world's  amaze. 
Sublime  Deliverer ! — after  many  days 
Found  worthy  of  the  deed  thou  art  come  to  do — 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

VI. 

But  Italy,  my  Italy, 

Can  it  last,  this  gleam? 

Can  she  live  and  be  strong, 

Or  is  it  another  dream 

Like  the  rest  we  have  dreamed  so  long  ? 

And  shall  it,  must  it  be. 
That  after  the  battle-cloud  has  broken 
She  will  die  off  again 
9 


98  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Like  the  rain, 

Or  like  a  poet's  song 

Sung  of  her,  sad  at  the  end 

Because  her  name  is  Italy, — 

Die  and  count  no  friend  ? 

It  is  true, — may  it  be  spoken, 

That  she  who  has  lain  so  still, 

With  a  wound  in  her  breast, 

And  a  flower  in  her  hand, 

And  a  grave-stone  under  her  head, 

While  every  nation  at  will 

Beside  her  has  dared  to  stand 

And  flout  her  with  pity  and  scorn, 

Saying,  "  She  is  at  rest. 

She  is  fair,  she  is  dead, 

And,  leaving  room  in  her  stead 

To  Us  who  are  later  born, 

This  is  certainly  best !" 

Saying,  "  Alas,  she  is  fair. 

Very  fair,  but  dead, 

And  so  we  have  room  for  the  race." 

— Can  it  be  true,  be  true. 

That  she  lives  anew  ? 

That  she  rises  up  at  the  shout  of  her  sons. 

At  the  trumpet  of  France, 

And  lives  anew? — is  it  true 

That  she  has  not  moved  in  a  trance, 

As  in  Forty-eight? 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY. 

When  her  eyes  were  troubled  with  blood 

Till  she  knew  not  friend  from  foe, 

Till  her  hand  was  caught  in  a  strait 

Of  her  cerement  and  baffled  so 

From  doing  the  deed  she  would ; 

And  her  weak  foot  stumbled  across 

The  grave  of  a  king, 

And  down  she  dropt  at  heavy  loss, 

And  we  gloomiugly  covered  her  face  and  said, 

"  We  have  dreamed  the  thing; 

She  is  not  alive,  but  dead." 

VII. 

Now,  shall  we  say 

Our  Italy  lives  indeed  ? 

And  if  it  were  not  for  the  beat  and  bray 

Of  drum  and  trump  of  martial  men. 

Should  we  feel  the  underground  heave  and  strain, 

Where  heroes  left  their  dust  as  a  seed 

Sure  to  emerge  one  day  ? 
And  if  it  were  not  for  the  rhythmic  march 
Of  France  and  Piedmont's  double  hosts, 

Should  we  hear  the  ghosts 
Thrill  through  ruined  aisle  and  arch, 
Throb  along  the  frescoed  wall. 
Whisper  an  oath  by  that  divine 
They  left  in  picture,  book  and  stone 

That  Italy  is  not  dead  at  all  ? 
Ay,  if  it  were  not  for  the  tears  in  our  eyes 


100    POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

These  tears  of  a  sudden  passionate  joy 

Should  we  see  her  arise 
From  the  place  where  the  wicked  are  overthrown, 

Italy,  Italy  ?    loosed  at  length 

From  the  tyrant's  thrall, 
Pale  and  calm  in  her  strength  ? 
Pale  as  the  silver  cross  of  Savoy 
When  the  hand  that  bears  the  flag  is  brave, 
And  not  a  breath  is  stirring,  save 

What  is  blown 
Over  the  war-trump's  lip  of  brass, 
Ere  Garibaldi  forces  the  pass ! 

VIII. 

Ay,  it  is  so,  even  so. 

Ayj  and  it  shall  be  so. 
Each  broken  stone  that  long  ago 
She  flung  behind  her  as  she  went 
In  discouragement  and  bewilderment 
Through  the  cairns  of  Time,  and  missed  her  way 

Between  to-day  and  yesterday. 

Up  springs  a  living  man. 
And  each  man  stands  with  his  face  in  the  light 

Of  his  own  drawn  sword, 
Ready  to  do  what  a  hero  can. 
Wall  to  sap,  or  river  to  ford. 
Cannon  to  front,  or  foe  to  pursue, 
Still  ready  to  do,  and  sworn  to  be  true, 

As  a  man  and  a  patriot  can. 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY.  101 

Piedmontese,  Neapolitan, 

Lombard,  Tuscan,  Romagnole, 

Each  man's  body  having  a  soul, — 

Count  how  many  they  stand, 

All  of  them  sons  of  the  land, 

Every  live  man  there 

Allied  to  a  dead  man  below, 

And  the  deadest  with  blood  to  spare 

To  quicken  a  living  hand 

In  case  it  should  ever  be  slow. 

Count  how  many  they  come 

To  the  beat  of  Piedmont's  drum, 

With  faces  keener  and  grayer 

Than  swords  of  the  Austrian  slayer, 

All  set  against  the  foe. 

"  Emperor 

Evermore.'^ 

IX. 

Out  of  the  dust,  where  they  ground  them, 

Out  of  the  holes,  where  they  dogged  them, 

Out  of  the  hulks,  where  they  wound  them 

In  iron,  tortured  and  flogged  them; 

Out  of  the  streets,  where  they  chased  them, 

Taxed  them  and  then  bayoneted  them, — 

Out  of  the  homes,  where  they  spied  on  them, 

(Using  their  daughters  and  wives,) 

Out  of  the  church,  where  they  fretted  them, 

Rotted  their  souls  and  debased  them, 

9^ 


lO'i  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Trained  them  to  answer  with  knives, 

Then  cursed  them  all  at  their  prayers ! — 

Out  of  cold  lands,  not  theirs, 

Where  they  exiled  them,  starved  them,  lied  on  them ; 

Back  they  come  like  a  wind,  in  vain 

Cramped  up  in  the  hills,  that  roars  its  road 

The  stronger  into  the  open  plain ; 

Or  like  a  fire  that  burns  the  hotter 

And  longer  for  the  crust  of  cinder. 

Serving  better  the  ends  of  the  potter ; 

Or  like  a  restrained  word  of  God, 

Fulfilling  itself  by  what  seems  to  hinder. 

"  Emperor 

Evermore." 

X. 

Shout  for  France  and  Savoy  ! 
Shout  for  the  helper  and  doer. 
Shout  for  the  good  sword's  ring, 
Shout  for  the  thought  still  truer. 
Shout  for  the  spirits  at  large 
Who  passed  for  the  dead  this  spring, 
Whose  living  glory  is  surer 
Shout  for  France  and  Savoy ! 
Shout  for  the  council  and  charge  ! 
Shout  for  the  head  of  Cavour  \ 
And  shout  for  the  heart  of  a  King 
That's  great  with  a  nation's  joy. 
Shout  for  France  and  Savoy  ! 


NAPOLEON  HI.  IN  ITALY.  103 

XI. 

Take  up  the  child,  Mac  Mahon,  though 

Thy  hand  be  red 

From  Magenta's  dead. 

And  riding  on,  in  front  of  the  troop, 

In  the  dust  of  the  whirlwind  of  war 
Through  the  gate  of  the  city  of  Milan,  stoop 
And  take  up  the  child  to  thy  saddle-bow, 
Nor  fear  the  touch  as  soft  as  a  flower 

Of  his  smile  as  clear  as  a  star ! 
Thou  hast  a  right  to  the  child,  we  say, 
Since  the  women  are  weeping  for  joy  as  those 
Who,  by  the  help  and  from  this  day, 

Shall  be  happy  mothers  indeed. 
They  are  raining  flowers  from  terrace  and  roof: 

Take  up  the  flower  in  the  child. 
While  the  shout  goes  up  of  a  nation  freed 

And  herocially  self-reconciled, 
Till  the  snow  on  that  peaked  Alp  aloof 
Starts,  as  feeling  God's  finger  anew. 
And  all  those  cold  white  marble  fires 
Of  mounting  saints  on  the  Duomo-spires 

Flicker  against  the  Blue. 
"  Emperor 
Evermore." 

Ay,  it  is  He, 
Who  rides  at  the  King's  right  hand  ! 


104  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Leave  room  to  his  horse  and  draw  to  the  side, 

Nor  press  too  near  in  the  ecstasy 

Of  a  newly  delivered  impassioned  land  : 

He  is  moved,  you  see, 
He  who  has  done  it  all. 
They  call  it  a  cold  stern  face; 

But  this  is  Italy 
Who  rises  up  to  her  place  ! — 
For  this  he  fought  in  his  youth, 
Of  this  he  dreamed  in  the  past ; 
The  lines  of  the  resolute  mouth 
Tremble  a  little  at  last. 
Cry,  he  has  done  it  all ! 

"  Emperor 

Evermore." 

XIII. 

It  is  not  strange  that  he  did  it, 
Though  the  deed  may  seem  to  strain 
To  the  wonderful,  unpermitted, 
For  such  as  lead  and  reign. 
But  he  is  strange,  this  man : 
The  people's  instinct  found  him 
(A  wind  in  the  dark  that  ran 
Through  a  chink  where  was  no  door), 
And  elected  him  and  crowned  him 

Emperor 

Evermore. 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY.  105 

XIV. 

Autocrat  ?  let  them  scoflF, 

"Who  fail  to  comprehend 
That  a  ruler  incarnate  of 

The  people,  must  transcend 
All  common  king-born  kings. 
These  subterranean  springs 
A  sudden  outlet  winning, 
Have  special  virtues  to  spend. 
The  people's  blood  runs  through  him, 
Dilates  from  head  to  foot, 
Creates  him  absolute, 
And  from  this  great  beginning 
Evokes  a  greater  end 
To  justify  and  renew  him — 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

XV. 

What !  did  any  maintain 

That  God  or  the  people  (think !) 

Could  make  a  marvel  in  vain  ? — 

Out  of  the  water-jar  there, 

Draw  wine  that  none  could  drink  ? 

Is  this  a  man  like  the  rest, 

This  miracle,  made  unaware 

By  a  rapture  of  popular  air, 

And  caught  to  the  place  that  was  best  ? 

You  think  he  could  barter  and  cheat 


106  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

As  vulgar  diplomates  use, 

With  the  people's  heart  in  his  breast? 

Prate  a  lie  into  shape 

Lest  truth  should  cumber  the  road ; 

Play  at  the  fast  and  loose 

Till  the  world  is  strangled  with  tape  ; 

Maim  the  soul's  complete 

To  fit  the  hole  of  a  toad  ; 

And  filch  the  dogmau's  meat 

To  feed  the  offspring  of  G-od? 

XVI. 

Nay,  but  he,  this  wonder, 

He  cannot  palter  nor  prate, 

Though  many  around  him  and  under. 

With  intellects  trained  to  the  curve, 

Distrust  him  in  spirit  and  nerve 

Because  his  meaning  is  straight. 

Measure  him  ere  he  depart 

With  those  who  have  governed  and  led ; 

Larger  so  much  by  the  heart. 

Larger  so  much  by  the  head. 

Emperor 

Evermore. 

XVII. 

He  holds  that,  consenting  or  dissident, 
Nations  must  move  with  the  time ; 

Assumes  that  crime  with  a  precedent 
Doubles  the  guilt  of  the  crime : 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY.  107 

— Denies  tliat  a  slaver's  bond, 

Or  a  treaty  signed  by  knaves, 
(Quorum  magna  pars  and  beyond 
Was  one  of  an  honest  name) 
Gives  an  inexpugnable  claim 
To  abolishing  men  into  slaves. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

XVIII. 

He  will  not  swagger  nor  boast 

Of  his  country's  meeds,  in  a  tone 
Missuiting  a  great  man  most 

If  such  should  speak  of  his  own ; 
Nor  will  he  act,  on  her  side, 

From  motives  baser,  indeed, 
Than  a  man  of  a  noble  pride 

Can  avow  for  himself  at  need  ; 
Never,  for  lucre  or  laurels, 

Or  custom,  though  such  should  be  rife, 
Adapting  the  smaller  morals 

To  measure  the  larger  life. 
He,  though  the  merchants  persuade, 

And  the  soldiers  are  eager  for  strife, 
Finds  not  his  country  in  quarrels 

Only  to  find  her  in  trade, — 
While  still  he  accords  her  such  honour 

As  never  to  flinch  for  her  sake 
Where  men  put  service  upon  her, 


108  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Found  heavy  to  undertake 
And  scarcely  like  to  be  paid  : 
Believing  a  nation  may  act 
Unselfishly — shiver  a  lance 
(As  the  least  of  her  sons  may,  in  fact) 
And  not  for  a  cause  of  finance. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 


XIX. 


Grreat  is  he, 
Who  uses  his  greatness  for  all. 
His  name  shall  stand  perpetually 

As  a  name  to  applaud  and  cherish, 
Not  only  within  the  civic  wall 
For  the  loyal,  but  also  without 

For  the  generous  and  free. 

Just  is  he. 
Who  is  just  for  the  popular  due 

As  well  as  the  private  debt. 
The  praise  of  nations  ready  to  perish 

Fall  on  him, — crown  him  in  view 

Of  tyrants  caught  in  the  net, 
And  statesmen  dizzy  with  fear  and  doubt ! 
And  though,  because  they  are  many, 

And  he  is  merely  one, 
And  nations  selfish  and  cruel 
Heap  up  the  inquisitor's  fuel 
To  kill  the  body  of  ^n'gh  intents. 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY.  109 

And  burn  great  deeds  from  their  place. 

Till  this,  the  greatest  of  any, 

May  seem  imperfectly  done  ; 

Courage,  whoever  circumvents ! 

Courage,  courage,  whoever  is  base  ! 

The  soul  of  a  high  intent,  be  it  known, 

Can  die  no  more  than  any  soul 

Which  God  keeps  by  him  under  the  throne ; 

And  this,  at  whatever  interim, 

Shall  live,  and  be  consummated 

Into  the  being  of  deeds  made  whole. 

Courage,  courage !  happy  is  he. 

Of  whom  (himself  among  the  dead 

And  silent),  this  word  shall  be  said ; 

— That  he  might  have  had  the  world  with  him, 

But  chose  to  side  with  suffering  men. 

And  had  the  world  against  him  when 

He  came  to  deliver  Italy. 

Emperor 

Evermore. 


10 


110  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


CHRISTMAS  GIFTS. 

Gregory  Nazianzen. 

The  Pope  on  Christmas  Day 

Sits  in  St.  Peter's  Chair; 
But  the  peoples  murmur  and  say, 

"Our  souls  are  sick  and  forlorn, 
And  who  will  show  us  where 

Is  the  stable  where  Christ  was  born  V 

The  star  is  lost  in  the  dark ; 

The  manger  is  lost  in  the  straw ; 
The  Christ  cries  faintly  .  .  hark  !  .  . 

Through  bands  that  swaddle  and  strangle — 
But  the  Pope  in  the  chair  of  awe 

Looks  down  the  great  quadrangle. 

The  magi  kneel  at  his  foot, 

Kings  of  the  east  and  west, 
But,  instead  of  the  angles,  (mute 

Is  the  "Peace  on  earth''  of  their  song,) 
The  peoples,  perplexed  and  opprest, 

Are  sighing,  "How  long,  how  long?" 

And,  instead  of  the  kine,  bewilder  in 

Shadow  of  aisle  and  dome, 
The  bear  who  tore  up  the  children. 

The  fox  who  burnt  up  the  corn, 


CHRISTMAS  GIFTS.  Ill 

And  the  wolf  who  suckled  at  Rome 
Brothers  to  slay  and  to  scorn. 

Cardinals  left  and  right  of  him, 

Worshippers  round  and  beneath, 
The  silver  trumpets  at  sight  of  him 

Thrill  with  a  musical  blast : 
But  the  people  say  through  their  teeth. 

"  Trumpets  ?  we  wait  for  the  Last!" 

He  sits  in  the  place  of  the  Lord, 

And  asks  for  the  gifts  of  the  time ; 
Gold,  for  the  haft  of  a  sword. 

To  win  back  Romagna  averse, 
Incense,  to  sweeten  a  crime, 

And  myrrh,  to  embitter  a  curse. 

Then  a  king  of  the  west  said,  "Good! — 

I  bring  thee  the  gifts  of  the  time ; 
Red,  for  the  patriot's  blood, 

Green,  for  the  martyr's  crown. 
White,  for  the  dew  and  the  rime. 

When  the  morning  of  God  comes  down.'' 

— 0  mystic  tricolour  bright ! 

The  Pope's  heart  quailed  like  a  man's; 
The  cardinals  froze  at  the  sight. 

Bowing  their  tonsures  hoary : 
And  the  eyes  in  the  peacock-fans 

Winked  at  the  alien  glory. 


112  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS 

But  tlie  peoples  exclaimed  in  hope, 
"Now  blessed  be  be  wlio  has  brought 

These  gifts  of  the  time  to  the  Pope, 
When  our  souls  were  sick  and  forlorn. 

— And  here  is  the  star  we  sought, 
To  show  us  where  Christ  was  born  I" 


A  CURSE  FOR  A  NATION. 

PROLOGUE. 

1  HEARD  an  angel  speak  last  night, 

And  he  said,  "  Write  ! 
Write  a  Nation's  curse  for  me, 
And  send  it  over  the  Western  Sea." 

I  faltered,  taking  up  the  word : 

"Not  so,  my  lord  ! 
If  curses  must  be,  choose  another 
To  send  thy  curse  against  my  brother. 

"For  I  am  bound  by  gratitude, 

By  love  and  blood, 
To  brothers  of  mine  across  the  sea. 
Who  stretch  out  kindly  hands  to  me." 

"Therefore,"  the  voice  said,  "shalt  thou  write 

My  curse  to-night. 
From  the  summits  of  love  a  curse  is  driven. 
As  lightning  is  from  the  tops  of  heaven." 


A  CURSE  FOR  A  NATION.  113 

"Not  so/'  I  answered.     "Evermore 

My  heart  is  sore 
For  my  own  land's  sins :  for  little  feet 
Of  cliildren  bleeding  along  the  street : . 

"  For  parked-up  honours  that  gainsay 

The  right  of  way : 
For  almsgiving  through  a  door  that  is 
Not  open  enough  for  two  friends  to  kiss : 

"For  love  of  freedom  which  abates 

Beyond  the  Straits ; 
For  patriot  virtue  starved  to  vice  on 
Self-praise,  self-interest,  and  suspicion  : 

"For  an  oligarchic  parliament, 
And  bribes  well-meant. 
What  curse  to  another  land  assign. 
When  heavy-souled  for  the  sins  of  mine  ?" 

"Therefore,"  the  voice  said,  "  shalt  thou  write 

My  curse  to-night. 
Because  thou  hast  strength  to  see  and  hate 
A  foul  thing  done  loitliin  thy  gate." 

"Not  so,"  I  answered  once  again. 

"  To  curse,  choose  men. 
For  I,  a  woman,  have  only  known 
How  the  heart  melts  and  the  tears  run  down." 

"Therefore,"  the  voice  said,  "  shalt  thou  write 

My  curse  to-night. 
10* 


Ill  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Some  women  weep  and  curse,  I  say, 
(And  no  one  marvels,)  niglit  and  day. 

"  And  thou  slialt  take  their  part  to-night, 

Weep  and  write. 
A  curse  from  the  depths  of  womanhood 
Is  very  salt,  and  hitter,  and  good." 

So  thus  I  wrote,  and  mourned  indeed. 

What  all  may  read. 
And  thus,  as  was  enjoined  on  me, 
I  send  it  over  the  Western  Sea. 

THE  CURSE. 

Because  ye  have  broken  your  own  chain 

With  the  strain 
Of  brave  men  climbing  a  Nation's  height, 
Yet  thence  bear  down  with  brand  and  thong 
On  souls  of  others, — for  this  wrong 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Because  yourselves  are  standing  straight 

In  the  state 
Of  Freedom's  foremost  acolyte, 
Yet  keep  calm  footing  all  the  time 
On  writhing  bond-slaves, — for  this  crime 

This  is  the  curse.     Write 

Because  ye  prosper  in  God's  name, 

With  a  claim 
To  honour  in  the  old  world's  sight, 


A  CURSE  FOR  A  NATION.  115 

Yet  do  the  fiend's  work  perfectly 
In  strangling  martyrs, — for  this  lie 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Ye  shall  watch  while  kings  conspire 
Round  the  people's  smouldering  fire, 

And,  warm  for  your  part, 
Shall  never  dare — 0  shame  ! 
To  utter  the  thought  into  flame 

Which  burns  at  your  heart. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Ye  shall  watch  while  nations  strive 
With  the  bloodhounds,  die  or  survive. 

Drop  faint  from  their  jaws, 
Or  throttle  them  backward  to  death, 
And  only  under  your  breath 

Shall  favor  the  cause. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Ye  shall  watch  while  strong  men  draw 
The  nets  of  feudal  law 

To  strangle  the  weak, 
And,  counting  the  sin  for  a  sin, 
Your  soul  shall  be  sadder  within 

Than  the  word  ye  shall  speak. 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

When  good  men  are  praying  erect 
That  Christ  may  avenge  his  elect 
And  deliver  the  earth, 


116  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

The  prayer  in  your  ears,  said  low, 
Shall  sound  like  the  tramp  of  a  foe 
That's  driving  you  forth. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

When  wise  men  give  you  their  praise, 
They  shall  pause  in  the  heat  of  the  phrase, 

As  if  carried  too  far. 
When  ye  boast  your  own  charters  kept  true, 
Ye  shall  blush ; — for  the  thing  which  ye  do 

Derides  what  ye  are. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

When  fools  cast  taunts  at  your  gate. 
Your  scorn  ye  shall  somewhat  abate 

As  ye  look  o'er  the  wall, 
For  your  conscience,  tradition,  and  name 
Explode  with  a  deadlier  blame 

Than  the  worst  of  them  all. 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Go,  wherever  ill  deeds  shall  be  done, 
Go,  plant  your  flag  in  the  sun 

Beside  the  ill-doers  ! 
And  recoil  from  clenching  the  curse 
Of  God's  witnessing  Universe 

With  a  curse  of  yours. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 


VOID  IN  LAW.  ]17 


VOID  IN  LAW. 


Sleep,  little  babe  on  my  knee, 

Sleep,  for  the  midnight  is  chill, 
And  the  moon  has  died  out  in  the  tree, 

And  the  great  human  world  goeth  ill. 
Sleep,  for  the  wicked  agree  : 

Sleep,  let  them  do  as  they  will. 
Sleep. 

Sleep,  thou  hast  drawn  from  my  breast 
The  last  drop  of  milk  that  was  good ; 

And  now,  in  a  dream,  suck  the  rest, 
Lest  the  real  should  trouble  thy  blood. 

Suck,  little  lips  dispossessed, 

As  we  kiss  in  the  air  whom  we  would. 

Sleep. 

0  lips  of  thy  father !  the  same, 

So  like  !  Very  deeply  they  swore 
When  he  gave  me  his  ring  and  his  name. 

To  take  back,  I  imagined,  no  more  ! 
And  now  is  all  changed  like  a  game. 

Though  the  old  cards  are  used  as  of  yore  ? 
Sleep. 

"Void  in  law,"  said  the  Courts.     Something  wrong 
In  the  forms?     Yet,  "Till  death  part  us  two, 

I,  James,  take  thee,  Jessie,"  was  strong. 
And  One  witness  competent.     True 


118  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Such  a  marriage  was  worth  an  old  song, 

Heard  in  Heaven  though,  as  plain  as  the  New. 
Sleep. 

Sleep,  little  child,  his  and  mine  ! 

Her  throat  has  the  antelope  curve, 
And  her  cheek  just  the  color  and  line 

Which  fade  not  before  him  nor  swerve  : 
Yet  she  has  no  child  ! — the  divine 

Seal  of  right  upon  loves  that  deserve. 
Sleep. 

My  child  !  though  the  world  take  her  part, 
Saying,  "  She  was  the  woman  to  choose, 

He  had  eyes,  was  a  man  in  his  heart," — 
We  twain  the  decision  refuse : 

We  .  .  weak  as  I  am,  as  thou  art,  .  . 
Cling  on  to  him,  never  to  loose. 

Sleep. 

He  thinks  that,  when  done  with  this  place. 
All's  ended  ?  he'll  new-stamp  the  ore  ? 

Yes,  Caesar's — but  not  in  our  case. 
Let  him  learn  we  are  waiting  before 

The  grave's  mouth,  the  heaven's  gate,  Grod's  face, 
With  implacable  love  evermore. 

Sleep. 

He's  ours,  though  he  kissed  her  but  now ; 
He's  ours,  though  she  kissed  in  reply ; 


VOID  IN  LAW.  119 


He's  ours,  though  himself  disavow, 
And  God's  universe  favor  the  lie  ; 

Ours  to  claim,  ours  to  clasp,  ours  below, 
Ours  above,  .  .  if  we  live,  if  we  die. 

Sleep. 


Ah  baby,  my  baby,  too  rough 

Is  my  lullaby  ?     What  have  I  said  ? 

Sleep  !  When  I've  wept  long  enough 
I  shall  learn  to  weep  softly  instead. 

And  piece  with  some  alien  stuff 

My  heart  to  lie  smooth  for  thy  head. 

Sleep. 

Two  souls  met  upon  thee,  my  sweet ; 

Two  loves  led  thee,  out  to  the  sun  : 
Alas,  pretty  hands,  pretty  feet. 

If  the  one  who  remains  (only  one) 
Set  her  grief  at  thee,  turned  in  a  heat 

To  thine  enemy, — were  it  well  done  ? 
Sleep. 

May  He  of  the  manger  stand  near 
And  love  thee  !  An  infant  He  came 

To  His  own  who  rejected  Him  here, 

But  the  Magi  brought  gifts  all  the  same. 

/  hui'ry  the  cross  on  my  Dear  ! 
My  gifts  are  the  griefs  I  declaim  ! 

Sleep. 


320  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


MAY'S  LOVE. 

You  love  all,  you  say, 
Round,  beneath,  above  me  : 

Find  me  then  some  way 
Better  than  to  love  me, 

Me,  too,  dearest  May  ! 

O  world-kissing  eyes 

Which  the  blue  heavens  melt  to  ! 
I,  sad,  overwise. 

Loathe  the  sweet  looks  dealt  to 
All  things — men  and  flies. 

You  love  all,  you  say  : 
Therefore,  Dear,  abate  me 

Just  your  love,  I  pray  ! 

Shut  your  eyes  and  hate  me — 

Only  me — fair  May  ! 


THE  FORCED  RECRUIT. 

SOLFERIXO,   1859. 


In  the  ranks  of  the  Austrian  you  found  him. 
He  died  with  his  face  to  you  all; 

Yet  bury  him  here  where  around  him 
You  honor  your  bravest  that  fall. 


THE  FORCED  RECRUIT.  121 

Venetian,  fair-featured  and  slender, 

He  lies  shot  to  death  in  his  youth, 
With  a  smile  on  his  lips  over-tender 

For  any  mere  soldier's  dead  mouth. 

No  stranger,  and  yet  not  a  traitor, 

Though  alien  the  cloth  on  his  breast, 
Underneath  it  how  seldom  a  greater 

Young  heart,  has  a  shot  sent  to  rest ! 

By  your  enemy  tortured  and  goaded 

To  march  with  them,  stand  in  their  file, 
His  musket  (see)  never  was  loaded. 

He  facing  your  guns  with  that  smile  I 

As  orphans  yearn  on  to  their  mothers, 

He  yearned  to  your  patriot  bands ; — 
"  Let  me  die  for  our  Italy,  brothers, 

If  not  in  your  ranks,  by  your  hands  ! 

'^  Aim  straightly,  fire  steadily  !  spare  me 

A  ball  in  the  body  which  may 
Deliver  my  heart  here,  and  tear  me 

This  badge  of  the  Austrian  away  !  " 

So  thought  he,  so  died  he  this  morning. 

What  then  ?  many  others  have  died. 
Ay,  but  easy  for  men  to  die  scorning 

The  death-stroke,  who  fought  side  by  side. 

One  tricolor  floating  above  them  ; 

Struck  down  'mid  triumphant  acclaims 
11 


122  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Of  an  Italy  rescued  to  love  them 

And  blazon  the  brass  with  their  names. 

But  he, — without  witness  or  honor, 

Mixed,  shamed  in  his  country's  regard, 

With  the  tyrants  who  march  in  upon  her, 
Died  faithful  and  passive  :  'twas  hard. 

'  Twas  sublime.     In  a  cruel  restriction 

Cut  off  from  the  guerdon  of  sons, 
With  most  filial  obedience,  conviction. 
His  soul  kissed  the  lips  of  her  guns. 

That  moves  you  ?  Nay,  grudge  not  to  show  it, 
While  digging  a  grave  for  him  here  : 

The  others  have  died,  says  your  poet, 
Have  glory, — let  Mm  have  a  tear. 


KING  VICTOR  EMANUEL  ENTERING  FLORENCE,  APRIL, 

1860. 

King  of  us  all,  we  cried  to  thee,  cried  to  thee. 
Trampled  to  earth  by  the  beasts  impure, 
Dragged  by  the  chariot's  which  shame  as  they  roll  : 
The  dust  of  our  torment  far  and  wide  to  thee 
Went  up,  darkening  thy  royal  soul. 
Be  witness,  Cavour, 
That  the  King  was  sad  for  the  people  in  thrall 
This  King  of  us  all ! 

King,  we  cried  to  thee  I     Strong  in  replying, 
Thy  word  and  thy  sword  sprang  rapid  and  sure, 


KING  VICTOR  EMANUEL  ENTERING  FLORENCE.  123 

Cleaving  our  way  to  a  nation's  place. 
Oh,  first  soldier  of  Italy  ! — crying 

Now  grateful,  exultant,  we  look  in  thy  face. 
Be  witness,  Cavour, 
That,  freedom's  first  soldier,  the  freed  should  call 
First  King  of  them  all ! 

This  is  our  beautiful  Italy's  birthday  ; 

High-thoughted  souls,  whether  many  or  fewer, 
Bring  her  the  gift,  and  wish  her  the  good. 
While  Heaven  presents  on  this  sunny  earth-day 
The  noble  king  to  the  land  renewed  : 
Be  witness,  Cavour  ! 
Roar,  cannon-mouths  !  Proclaim,  install 
The  King  of  us  all ! 

G-rave  he  rides  through  the  Florence  gateway, 
Clenching  his  face  into  calm,  to  immure 
His  struggling  heart  till  it  half  disappear ; 
If  he  relaxed  for  a  moment,  straightway 
He  would  break  out  into  passionate  tears — 
(Be  witness,  Cavour  !) 
While  rings  the  cry  without  interval, 
"  Live,  King  of  us  all !" 

Cry,  free  peoples !  Honour  the  nation 

By  crowning  the  true  man — and  none  is  truer  : 
Pisa  is  here,  and  Livorno  is  here, 

And  thousands  of  faces,  in  wild  exultation. 
Burn  over  the  windows  to  feel  him  near — 
(Be  witness,  Cavour  !) 


]24  POEMS  OF  THE  INTELLECT  AND  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

And  thousands  of  faces,  in  wild  exultation, 
Burn  over  the  windows  to  fesel  him  near — 
(Be  witness,  Cavour !) 
Burn  over  from  terrace,  roof,  window  and  wall, 
On  this  King  of  us  all. 

Grrave  !  A  good  man's  ever  the  graver 
For  bearing  a  nation's  trust  secure ; 
And  7i€,  he  thinks  of  the  Heart,  beside, 
Which  broke  for  Italy,  failing  to  save  her, 
And  pining  away  by  Oporto's  tide  : 
Be  witness,  Cavour, 
That  he  thinks  of  his  vow  on  that  royal  pall. 
This  King  of  us  all. 

Flowers,  flowers,  from  the  flowery  city  ! 
Such  innocent  thanks  for  a  deed  so  pure. 
As,  melting  away  for  joy  into  flowers, 
The  nation  invites  him  to  enter  his  Pitti 

And  evermore  reign  in  this  Florence  of  ours. 
Be  witness,  Cavour  ! 
He'll  stand  where  the  reptiles  were  used  to  crawl, 
This  King  of  us  all. 

Grrave,  as  the  manner  of  noble  men  is — 
Deeds  unfinished  will  weigh  on  the  doer  : 
And,  baring  his  head  to  those  crape-veiled  flags, 
He  bows  to  the  grief  of  the  South  and  Venice. 
Oh,  riddle  the  last  of  the  yellow  to  rags, 
And  swear  by  Cavour 
That  the  King  shall  reign  where  the  tyrants  fall, 
True  Kingr  of  us  all ! 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recalL 


iNov'GQQu 

REC  D  i-u 

nnT2ii1960 

-  .  -^ .  -  o 

m^kUk  f£fi 

A  4  72  =4  P.-il  ^  5 

LD  21A-50m-4,'60 
(A9562sl0)476B 

General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 

*d. 


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